


The Arena

by NotRoman (Manniness)



Series: And Prove More Fierce [3]
Category: Spartacus Series (TV), Spartacus: Blood and Sand
Genre: BAMF Nasir, Gladiator!Nasir, M/M, Nasir becomes a gladiator, Nasir takes care of business, Shit starts to get real, Upping the Ante
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-22
Updated: 2018-01-25
Packaged: 2019-02-18 09:52:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 31,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13097595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Manniness/pseuds/NotRoman
Summary: Sequel to The BrotherhoodThe arena of Capua now stands between Nasir and his Germans.  He will do whatever he must in order to return to his lover Agron and his brother Duro... even if Nasir's actions trap him within the most terrifying arena of all: one built from Roman schemes and deception.WARNINGS: Basically, if you've seen the TV show, you know what kind of triggers to expect. (I feel that the Starz Spartacus series itself is "Explicit" and, since this fic is a Canon AU, I'm sticking with that rating.) HOWEVER, I will post warnings (such as DEATH, TORTURE, GORE (violent or medicinal), and SEXYTIMES) at the beginning of corresponding chapters. FYI, I have ZERO plans to describe Non-Con/NCS in detail.





	1. The Gladiator

**Author's Note:**

> This story picks up hours after "The Brotherhood" leaves off. If you haven't read "The Brotherhood" and/or "The Recruit," I recommend doing so as I have not made any attempt for the individual fics to stand alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: GORE, VIOLENCE, DEATH (not of a major character... I mean, we're in the arena, so yeah it's gonna happen to somebody)

 

Roars.

The boards above my head trembled under the weight of stomping feet.  Somewhere deep in the belly of the arena, I could hear sand sifting, shushing, sliding through cracks and crevasses.

Hamilcar slouched easily upon the long bench between myself and Peirastes, who sat straight and tall despite bored expression.  I perched at board’s warped edge, elbows upon knees and frown fixed upon bloodied sand.  Footprints and drag marks.

I cast my mind elsewhere.  Agron and Duro would have finished midday meal by now.  Perhaps they chose to spar or wrestle to pass the time, much like I had when they had been in my place and I in theirs.  They would worry, yes, as I had worried, but not out of doubt.  My brothers did not doubt me nor I myself.  The cause of gut-shredding anxiety was simply not knowing.  Not knowing the fate of a loved one was a terrible burden to bear.

A loved one.

Had I told these words to Agron?  Fuck.  I had not.  But, surely, he knew.  Both of my Germans did.

The sound of horns.

My head snapped up and I realized that the sands had finally been cleared of bodies.  Capua’s condemned criminals had met their end shackled and unarmed against vicious wild boars.  The gladiatorial matches would now begin.

I did not fight in the first match -- perhaps this was out of consideration for Batiatus’ status as a lanista of renown -- but I stood and approached the gate to watch.  Fortis’ gaze followed me with idle curiosity.  Liscus was, as usual, smirking as if I presented humorous joke.  Crixus glared at no one and nothing.

I had been to the games years ago with young Varro, accompanying him at his father’s insistence: “I am not fit enough to battle the crowd.  Take Tiberius along.  He will hold my coin and see your hunger fed and thirst quenched.”

Even then, Varro had been tempted by gambling.

The men who set foot upon the sands for the first match were not gamblers.  They fought with vicious intent toward survival.  The crowd jeered in disapproval when Solonius’ man fell too swiftly, and even though the victor raised his arms -- even though he turned to address the crowd and share triumph -- they did not reward him.  He left the arena in possession of his life but no favor.

“Batiatus’ man!  Nasir!”

I turned at the call.  Four guards stood at the joining of corridors, hands upon pommels and gazes stern.  With a breath, I gathered myself and answered the summons.

One of the guards snorted in derision at either my stature, light armor, or dark skin.  It mattered not and I made no effort to identify which man held insults in his thoughts.

They led me to the table where the helmets and weapons for Batiatus’ gladiators were laid out.  I collected mine.  Under watchful gaze, I slid gladius into sheath, placed shield -- small, round, and light -- upon arm, lowered helmet to head, and grasped spear.

“If I had coin, I would not put it on you, little man,” one of the soldiers sneered.

I exchanged barb: “Nor I you.”

“You fucking--”

“Cease,” the commander ordered.  “He is called to the sands.”

The soldier who had first broken words added, “Where I shall enjoy watching him bleed and beg for death.”

I smiled.  Due to the helmet, no one knew of it with exception of myself.

The moment the gates opened, my world shifted.  Slow, shadowed darkness was suddenly bleached with stark, bright light.  The clamor of the crowd overwhelmed before fading to a buzz.  Laughter -- that was easy enough to hear.  Jeering shouts suggesting that I be sent home to my parents to grow a bit more before making attempt at the arena.

As we saluted our respective lanistas seated in arena’s pulvinus, my opponent, a murmillo of Duro’s height and build, continued in like vein: “I shall make sport of you, little one.”

“By all means, make fucking attempt.”

We faced each other.  Waited…

“Begin!”

Begin.

Begin.

One word that echoed with every step, every breath, every blow.

The gleam of sunlight upon blade’s edge -- I countered with shield and spear thrust.

The shadow of shield swooping down -- I dodged and knocked it further aside.

A kick, unseen due to fucking helmet, sent me stumbling back.  A raised shield blocked opponent’s blade.  A sweep of spear -- the barb catching in flesh: a hit to outer thigh.

First blood.

Suddenly, I understood the reason for drills: my body acted absent command, countering and lunging with every shift of my opponent’s bulk.  Suddenly, I understood the need for skill in falling: again and again, I tumbled from sudden blow, but my weight shifted easily, rolling and regaining both feet and purpose.

I defended; I dodged; I attacked.

I focused.

I fought.

My opponent was swearing, sweating, stumbling off-balance by the blows I landed: spear butt to knee, shaft to ankle, barb to shoulder.  A shallow nip of metal upon flesh.

With this strike, he twisted, gladius arcing down toward my hands.

I decided I was done pacing myself.

With a hiss, I jerked back, spun, and flicked the spear up under his guard, catching his helmet and slicing against his sword arm with edge of shield.

He staggered back.

I prowled, waited for him to gather himself.  I would fight longer.  I would own these sands for a few more moments.  I would unleash myself upon the entirety of the arena.

Fuck them all.

The gladius gleamed as the murmillo twisted it round in his grasp, lifted shield, attacked.  I blocked with shield, spun aside from on-coming blow, ducked low, swept his legs out from under him with spear’s shaft.

Again, I retreated.  Circled.  Watched him gain feet.

The noise of the crowd had changed, but I kept my attention upon the murmillo.  Sense of fucking surroundings.

He led with shield this time and I saw it for the ploy it was -- he would herd me into blade’s path.  I jabbed his helmet with spear butt.  Hard.   Kicked his shield arm wide open.  Countered slicing blow from gladius, and buried barb in the man’s hip.

The sharpened steel sank through muscle with the same lack of resistance a man would encounter stepping into a warm bath.  Descent stopped by bone and showered in blood.

The murmillo cried out.

I leaped back.

He bellowed a war cry.  A crazed lunge and broad sweep of sword.  The spear tip found his flesh, skewering forearm and separating bones.

The gladius dropped from twitching fingers.

His larger shield smashed against my side.

_****Grip upon spear!** ** _

My fingers clutched tightly as I rolled in the sand, gained knees, angled spear--

A jolt.

I stared.  The murmillo had rushed me and impaled himself upon the barb.  It had bitten deep into his chest, right side.  He choked, coughed, blood dribbled down his throat from beneath helmet’s edge.

Standing, I yanked the spear from his flesh, spun and twirled it to strike his helmet, then spun back -- an uppercut blow of spear-to-chin -- but I was not done.  Setting spear butt to sand, I vaulted, snarling, slamming both feet into his chest and sending him down, his body bouncing hard and limbs twitching.

I easily kicked his shield aside.  The man was done.

He lifted his hand and gave the gesture for missio.

I looked to the pulvinus.  The editor stood.  The crowd screamed for blood.

Mercy was not granted.

Fuck.

“You have earned an honorable end, gladiator,” I informed over the chanting wave of the crowd calling for _****death--death--DEATH!****_

He slumped against the sand.  “See it done, little one.”

So be it.

Spinning spear in a wide arc, I plunged barb deep into side of neck, twisting the wound upward and withdrawing with fanfare.  The arterial spray pulsed high into the air, showering both of us in spurts of red.

Finally, I allowed myself to cast senses beyond the dying man, beyond the pulvinus and Batiatus’ smug expression, beyond the bright grin of the magistrate’s son.  I turned to the audience as they basked in the fountain of blood, wild with pleasure.

I raised spear and gave victory to the Romans.

Yes, let them take both blood and victory.  I would claim life as my prize.  Life and a swift return to those I held to heart.

Doctore greeted my return to arena’s interior with a nod of approval.  I replaced helmet and shield upon table, cleaned spear of blood, and removed gladius.  I’d had no need of it at all.  My thigh suddenly throbbed where the scabbard had gouged into my flesh as I’d rolled in the sand and my shoulders ached dully.  I would bruise, perhaps, but I was both too numb and too tightly strung to feel it.

Doctore examined me and I was surprised to discover a number of shallow cuts upon my arms.  I had not even felt the hits.  With a gesture from Doctore, an arena slave came forward and cleansed each of grit.  I was pronounced otherwise hale and sent back to the bench.

Hamilcar was grinning.

Peirastes patted my shoulder in passing as he answered soldiers’ summons.

Liscus offered his arm.

I raised a brow in show of doubt -- this was not the first time Liscus had appeared to approve of me only to mock and challenge me later -- but I accepted his clasp.

“It was I who showed you how to knock a man’s feet out from under him,” he bragged.

I wearily conceded that to be true.

The crowd had already turned attention and enthusiasm from the murmillo’s death to the promise of another fight.  I leaned against the grate to witness all of the matches, but I could not turn my thoughts away from my opponent’s defeat and death.  I would have spared him, but the decision had not been mine to make.  I had never felt the weight of my absent slave collar rest so heavily.

At least I had given him a quick death.

Yet I had also taken opportunity to provide a sensational show of blood in order to elevate my own status among the crowd.

I desired to wash my hands.

Crixus had been given the honor of the primus, though his return to the sands was met with disdain.  Rotten food and shouted insults.  A fallen champion.  How fickle the crowd, indeed.

But the battle was won with fanfare and favor regained with blood and gore.  Crixus returned renewed, every motion of his body spurred by purpose, intent filling his form until he seemed about to burst.  Despite his vigor, I did not envy him the rush of victory.

“Nasir.”  Doctore approached, expression stony.  “You will accompany Dominus’ body slave -- Santos -- to prepare for celebration.  Numerius desires your presence at a small gathering to be held at the house of Magistrate Titus Calavius.”

My heart sank.  Fuck.  I would not yet lay eyes upon Duro’s smile.  I would not yet hold Agron in my arms.  “My instructions, Doctore?”

“Satisfy all requests of your patron.  Ashur and Aulus will accompany--”  Though Doctore’s manner did not alter, I sensed his disapproval of both men.  “--and provide further instruction if required.”

“I understand.”

Doctore gestured me toward the waiting slave, but Hamilcar’s hand upon my shoulder stayed my feet.  “I will break words with Duro and Agron on this.”

My smile was slight but genuine.  “You may also provide detail of my efforts in the arena if they press for information.”

This surprised Duro’s mentor.  “You would not claim the right to tell of it yourself?”

“I would have them at ease upon my return.”  After a night of Roman celebration, I doubted I would be any more inclined toward revelry than I now stood… and the thought of reliving the blood and death was not a welcome one.  I had killed a man out of superficial necessity, not pleasure.

I offered Hamilcar my arm and then parted ways.  The arena baths were more sewer than not -- in fact, the large drain likely connected with the spoliarium at some point before flowing beyond the city -- but I did not voice complaint.  Suffering from the filth just as much as I was, Santos worked quickly to wipe blood from my armor and scrape unseemly dirt and gore from skin.  A fair amount of splatter was left as proof of my prowess.  The skin beneath it itched.  I fisted my hands.

Ashur grinned when he caught sight of me and I immediately wished the coming night to be over and done with.  Whatever I must endure, let it come.  I would have my rewards no matter the cost.

“Little man, you survive the arena.”

I considered needling him about the coin he may have lost, but held my tongue.  I had no desire to break words with the man.  Any insult to me, I would allow.  And as Agron and Duro were absent my side, I would not be called upon to defend them, either.

A familiar numbness settled over me: Tiberius, the body slave who had come into strength of his own under the ownership of Marius, would accept the brunt of mistreatment.  As ever, my eyes and ears remained open: sense of surroundings.

“Apologies,” the sly Syrian drawled, producing a pair of shackles, “but the safety of the magistrate and his family is paramount.”

Also, the illusion of my compliance and submission made more satisfying.

As we waited for the cart to return from delivering the men to Batiatus’ ludus, Ashur made additional attempts to engage me in conversation:

“From where in Syria do you hail?”

And: “You’ll be pleased to learn the younger German wagered coin on your victory.”  

Inevitably followed by: “Yet Agron did not.  Perhaps he doubts you.”

The man was relentless: “I am certain he’ll soon be of a different mind.”

I was unsurprised by his speculation: “Or he will pay the price of your shifting affections, yes?  The younger brother clearly seeks your favor through show of faith.”

Ashur certainly was a treacherous fuck, but his words were mere shit and piss.  Let him spew them to fill a bucket.  They touched upon neither heart nor convictions.

Aulus, an unkempt Roman of dubious standing, returned with the cart.  The journey to the magistrate’s home was not far, but it was appropriate that our arrival be conducted with ceremony.

I held chin high as I set foot in the foyer.  Numerius, bracketed by his parents and trusted house slaves, beamed at me.  Fuck the gods, Batiatus had spoken truth: I was but a toy at the whims of a boy.

Calavius’ wife grimaced.  “He was not cleansed beforehand?”  She gestured to her body slave, clearly about to order a bath prepared.

Numerius lifted a hand.  “No, Mother.  I would have my guests see him as a savage.  Direct from the arena.”  Speaking to the guards stationed at the domus’ entrance, he said, “Have my gladiator brought to celebration room.  Arrange him as instructed.”

Ashur cleared his throat.  “Apologies, but Batiatus would have us accompany as added assurance.”

“That will not be necessary.”

“Yes, it will,” Numerius’ mother insisted.  “Offer well received.”

As I was marched deeper into the grand, urban dwelling, I heard the woman explain to her grown son in deferential tone, “Though your gladiator may be tamed by shackles, the mothers of your friends would see additional precautions of safety.”

Titus agreed, “It is a man’s duty to consider an honored woman’s concerns before his own pride.”

The room that had been prepared was large with a central space cleared of adornment.  Five couches had been arranged and a table along the wall set with food and drink.  I was stationed at room’s center, clearly intended for display.

Ashur and Aulus removed themselves to the back of the room, accepting humble seats and refreshments from house slaves.  The guards stayed close, removed from my side but within range should I make unwelcome attempt upon either Numerius or his guests.

I was offered wine, which I declined.  Bread and cheese and dried fish and fruit.  I ate from the platter held by a young slave woman not because I was hungry but because I did not wish for my belly to complain and draw the guests’ focus away from wine and words.

_****“Do not wish for Roman attention.”** ** _

My belly lurched at the memory, at the thought of Agron and Duro.

_****“Lucky fucks.”** ** _

_****No, Duro.  I am not.** ** _

My hair was brushed.  The cleansed portions of my skin oiled.  I was permitted to keep my arm guard, belt, and clothing.  It truly was a blessing that a hoplomachus might be garbed in linen greaves as well as subligaria and wide belt.  Though I was very aware that, at any time during the celebration, I could be called upon to disrobe.

Commotion at the entrance announced the arrival of the first guest.  Numerius escorted a boy into the room.  He was of similar age and bearing to the magistrate’s son and seemed impressed by the form I presented, blushing at the sight of glistening skin and dried blood.

“You spoke truth,” the boy told.  “Your gladiator is a savage!”

Numerius preened.  At the sound of another visitor’s entrance, he hurriedly assigned a house slave to attend the first boy and dashed off to greet the next.  Four guests in total: five young men of high standing.  Five silent, female house slaves in attendance.  Platters of delicacies and goblets of wine.  I stood as a statue, fighting the urge to fidget.  Whenever I had been present at an event such as this, I had never been idle: fetch food; pour drink; inform kitchen slaves of guests’ requests; arrange pillows; see accommodations prepared; send word to cart…

I was inspected by the parents of each boy before they withdrew to their own pursuits in a separate area of the domus.  Numerius regaled his friends of how he had acquired me, how I had passed test of combat and received the mark of the Brotherhood, how I had fought and slain my opponent in the arena.

“Such large deeds for so small a man,” one boy gleefully doubted.

Numerius defended, “Spartacus stands as a man of average height, yet in the arena becomes a titan!”

“You would have the same for this one?”

An irreverent snort.  “A lofty aim he would not reach even with wings upon heels.”

Numerius smirked, “You doubt now, but a demonstration will see your thinking changed.  Gladiator!”

For the first time since breaking words with Hamilcar, I spoke, “Dominus.”

“We would have demonstration.”

“Yes, Dominus.”

Numerius leaned back against the couch and gestured carelessly for Ashur to approach.  “Release his bonds.”

Ashur complied, standing too close for my liking, but I had once prided myself on remaining unaffected by any aspect of surroundings.  I revisited that skill now.

The shackles were removed.  I returned my arms to previous pose and awaited instruction.  Numerius sent a house slave to collect a practice sword-- “The one given to me by Spartacus.” --which was presented to me.

“Now, I would have you face my guards and show us what good Batiatus has taught you.”

Two men against one.  Both stood taller and broader than me.  Their armor of better quality.  Their swords of steel.  I was outmatched, certainly, but if this was the cost of seeing Agron and Duro again, I would pay it.  “Yes, Dominus.”

The guards drew their weapons.  I had no expectation of being shown mercy.  Batiatus would not concern himself with my death if it furthered his goals.  Ashur was no friend of mine and would not interfere.

But what was more, I desired no interference.  I was a warrior.  My time upon the sands of the arena, locked in combat, had been too brief.  I would have more.  I would fight these men, these _****Romans.****_

“Begin!”

The guards lunged from opposite sides.  I ducked and spun, bringing the practice blade down and trapping-tangling theirs.  Kick to the belly of one guard; fist-and-pommel to the face of another.  A spin--wooden blade to neck of first; kick to pelvis of second.  Fingers grabbing tunic of first--forehead smashed to nose.  Blood.  Dive, roll into ankles of second, jab of dull blade to groin.

_****Regain feet!** ** _

Blow to ear of first; slash to cheek of second--!

“Halt!”

I froze, my elbow but a moment’s pause away from connecting with the jaw of the first guard.

“Have you ever seen a fighter as swift?” Numerius bragged, dismissing the wheezing guards back to their posts.

My breath remained steady.

They glared at me in turn, jaw muscles bunched.  Each gladius was sheathed with an angry hiss of steel.  A slave came forward to retrieve the practice blade.  I relinquished it into her grasp absent hesitation.

Resuming previous pose, I ignored Ashur’s smug grin.  Would that I could permit myself to ignore the remarks of the assembled guests, but I cautioned myself yet again to keep fucking sense of surroundings.

The boys ate and drank, turning their attentions from me to other topics and news.  Legatus Gaius Claudius Glaber made journey to Capua at behest of his wife, Ilithyia.  The number of men accompanying him ranged ever larger as each boy sought to impress the others with gossip overheard from adult sources.

Numerius bragged that he would be the one to welcome the legatus in his father’s stead: “He is for the coast to conduct business on the morrow!”

“And you fancy yourself a magistrate!”

“I have some notion of what is required.”

They laughed.

Soon, the wine was gone.  Numerius’ attendant stepped back with the empty amphora, but was halted by a guest.  He was not the largest boy, but his eyes held a familiar cruelty which only sharpened with every goblet emptied.  “Octavius, you boast of your exploits in the gymnasium too often.  I would see you level Numerius’ gladiator with one blow or cease your caterwauling.”

Octavius grinned and glanced toward Numerius, who granted permission with a drunken shrug.

Well.  So be it.

The challenged boy stood, swaying for a moment, and then advanced.  He did not pause to plant feet firmly or attain balance before his fist lashed out and struck the left side of my face.

I tasted blood -- my cheek cut upon teeth -- but I did not spit upon the tiles lest a house slave be charged with cleaning the mess later.

Facing forward again absent expression, I resumed task of ornamentation.

“Perhaps you’ll have better luck with this,” the instigator declared, passing the empty clay jug to Octavius.

He accepted the amphora with another grin, eager to appease his bruised ego, and swung it once to test its weight.

This time, he secured his footing.

I braced myself.

The boy’s arm swooped -- a blur of clay-skin-silk!

_****Whoosh!** ** _

Starbursts--heat--chill--agony--dizzying waves of pain racing over face and rebounding within skull…

_****Keep feet!** ** _

I locked my knees against the tinkle of broken pottery.  Pieces tickled my ankles and toes between sandal laces.  The trickle of slick blood along the right side of my face: I focused upon that.  Breathed.   

“What stands the cause of such racket--!”  A female gasp.  Numerius’ mother.

I opened my eyes.  Blood pooled along my lashes, dripped and dribbled upon my cheek, but I would not surrender my vision willingly.  Sense of fucking surroundings.

Two other Roman women joined her side, their expressions stern.  Turning to one of the guards, the domina of the house ordered, “Send for Medicus.”

“Medicus?” Octavius sputtered, laughing.  “He’s a gladiator!  A small cut is of no importance!”

She ignored him and signaled for Ashur to approach.  “Replace his shackles.”

“Octavius,” one of the Roman women spoke imperiously, “prepare yourself to depart.”

“But--”

“We return home presently.”  Facing the domina of the house, she begged, “Apologies for the disrespect shown by my son.  Our coin will cover the cost of treatment.”  With a venomous look toward a petulant Octavius, she swept from the room to, perhaps, consult with her husband.

A male slave that I recognized from my arrival -- by his arrogance and assumed authority, the man was the magistrate’s body slave -- swiftly escorted me to the slave quarters and I was permitted to wait for the medicus while seated upon a thin pallet.  Ashur and Aulus remained at a distance but within sight under the auspices of protecting the household from my vicious nature.  A collared girl -- the same who had offered me food and drink -- brought cloth and water.

“Gratitude,” I murmured, pressing the damp fabric to my face.

She nodded, wide-eyed, and retreated.  From my own time serving within a Roman house, I was aware that there was much yet to be tended to before any of the slaves would be permitted their night’s rest.  Clearing away the shattered clay vessel being the least of their duties.

Medicus arrived as I was beginning to lose the battle against weariness.  I spoke no words regarding the incident that had led to the wound and he was not gentle as he cleaned and stitched it.  By the time he took his leave, equally as disgruntled as he’d been upon initial assessment of injury, it was far too late for us to return to Batiatus’ household.

We were given generous accommodation: beds meant for guests, platters containing a varied selection of delicacies, sweetened wine.  Wary of falling to slumber among possible villains, I left the wine untouched.

The house slave who had brought me the cloth for my face was charged with bathing me before I took my rest.  The domina of the house would not have her fine things stained with the blood of a gladiator, the sweat of a slave, or the dust of the arena.

Well aware that my reputation might precede me, I quietly invited, “Call another to assist if it sets you at ease.”

She smiled.  “Your countenance does not frighten.”

I did not mention that, wrists shackled or not, my hands could rob her of life.  I supposed it would always be thus: I would be underestimated and deemed harmless.  Helpless.  Weak.

Perhaps additional scars would see that opinion changed.

A scar.  Yes, I would likely have one from the jagged cut upon brow and cheek.

At the reminder of my injury, I sighed.  Agron would not be pleased.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The instigator who goads Octavius into hitting Nasir is intended to be Flavius (who is mentioned but not introduced in Spartacus: Blood and Sand, Episode 10 -- Party Favors). The young men that Numerius is seen showing off his fighting know-how to at the toga virilis (celebration) are the ones he invites to his home.
> 
> The part where Santos prepares Nasir for the party and leaves some blood and gore for effect was inspired by a scene in gaygreekgladiator’s “Anyone Who Isn’t Us” (which features one of my very favorite portrayals of Duro) @ https://archiveofourown.org/works/661443
> 
> Just to be clear, the medicus that is summoned to the Calavius home is NOT the same man as the one who works in Batiatus’ ludus.
> 
> If you feel like fangirling with me, don't be shy about leaving a comment. I would love to hear from you! (^_^)


	2. Roman Schemes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: VIOLENCE, GORE, DEATH (not of major characters), SEXYTIMES (non-explicit)

 

Dawn.

I greeted the new day with weariness.  Ashur and Aulus had slept well enough under the roof of Titus Calavius.  I had chosen to keep my wits about me.  It would not be the first night I had foregone sleep.  In the past, I had done so for the sake of duty; now, I claimed it as my choice.

I wondered if Agron and Duro had rested and I caught myself sending apologies to them with my thoughts.

Apologies… for something beyond my control?  Neither of my brothers would accept.

Ashur and Aulus woke to the sounds of an unfamiliar household rising for the day.  Seeing them stir and me already wide awake, we were given food with which to break our fast.

“Gratitude for the hospitality,” Ashur spoke to the head house slave.  “We will not remain past our welcome, but be on our way so that you may tend to your duties.  Please express our gratitude to your dominus and domina.  Batiatus will hear every detail of their generosity.”

We took to cart shortly thereafter, Aulus driving and Ashur riding in back with me.  The city streets were yet quiet, but not empty.  I could hear many slaves already going about daily tasks: visiting the market, delivering messages, making repairs.  Though the cart had no windows and the door remained closed, I could imagine a typical Capua morning easily enough.

I had a vague notion of how long it would take to arrive at the ludus, and I remembered clearly the slope of the road which climbed to cliff’s crest… but when too much time and flat road had passed, I turned my gaze toward Ashur.

His grin was slippery, an eel slithering through brackish water.

“Dominus commanded you to heed my instruction, did he not?”

“Doctore spoke similar words.”

“Good.  We have an urgent appointment and your aid is required.”  The slick smile widened.  “After witnessing your efforts against the guards last night, I am confident you will be a great boon to our dominus’ venture.”

What sort of venture that was Ashur did not volunteer and I did not ask.  Though additional information could be to my benefit, I did not trust the man not to speak false.

The cart wheels soon began to slow and the vehicle canted into a slight depression.  A turn.  Then a halt.  The horses sighed.

We disembarked into a stand of trees.  Aulus carried a second gladius fetched from beneath the driver’s seat along with a bow and quiver of arrows.  I yet wore the restraints.  With a nod, Aulus led us through the trees to a slight rise.  A dusty road stretched from one direction to the other.

Ashur leaned back against a tree to wait.  Aulus picked at his fingernails with dagger point.

The morning bled toward noon.

I glared at the sun, hating every moment of the delay that kept me from my return.  I counted the wagons that passed upon the road, sparse and mostly merchant-owned.  Some rattled with amphorae of wine.  Others hissed with shifting grain.  Many showed symbols of ownership that I recognized: an olive farmer and oil producer, a textile weaver, a metallurgist.

The wagon that we waited for, however, did not hold cargo.  When Ashur suddenly gestured me closer, holding key in hand, I followed his sidelong gaze to the approaching vehicle.  A private cart owned by a family of standing.  The shackles fell away and Aulus pressed the pommel of the gladius into my grasp.

“You are to kill the wagon’s guards,” Ashur commanded, “but leave the passenger to me.”

I did not ask Aulus’ role.  The bow and arrows now made their purpose known: a guarantee against unexpected resistance from either intended target or me.

“I understand,” I answered and waited for Ashur’s signal.

He studied the wagon’s progress, the driver’s skill, the horses’ energy, the road itself.  He nodded and slid from the trees.  Ashur moved to take the driver and I sprinted toward the nearer guard, his counterpart stationed at cart’s far side and out of immediate sight.

The first called out a warning before blood poured from his neck.  The cart rocked to a halt -- driver dispatched.  I dropped down and rolled beneath the carriage as the second guard hurried around.  When he turned the corner and discovered his fellow in the dirt, I was already behind him.  The sword pierced his back, lung, and chest.  He gurgled softly as he met his end.

A call from inside the wagon -- a man making inquiry, voice muffled.  Ashur and I took up position with wheel at back and waited.  A long minute passed and then the cart door squealed softly open.  I grabbed for it.  Ashur hauled out the man who had opened it.  The sound of flesh being sliced by blade and the soft slump of a lifeless body to the dirt.  As he fell, his head came into view and I recognized his face: the body slave of Magistrate Titus Calavius.

Fuck the gods.

Aulus rushed past me and dived into the cart.  There was a scuffle and a shout and the thump of fist against face.  A rustle and then scraping as Aulus dragged a heavy burden toward the door.  The unconscious magistrate, with sack tied over head, was handed down to Ashur.

“There’s a chair,” Aulus remarked.

Ashur said, “Fetch it.”  To me, he ordered, “Take his feet.”

I held no thought to resist.  Aulus would not hesitate to send an arrow into me and Ashur would surely voice threats of harm against my German brothers in retribution for my lack of cooperation.  I would have Agron, Duro, and myself draw breath a little longer.

We hauled the limp form of our hostage and placed him in Batiatus’ cart along with the chair taken from the wagon.  Ashur bound the man’s hands and feet securely.

“Put the bodies in the magistrate’s cart.”

Aulus and I saw it done.  The guards, the driver, the body slave: all were placed within the magistrate’s wagon.  Aulus drove the vehicle behind the trees, past our cart.  He engaged the brakes and stepped down.  Retrieving the gladius from me, he shoved me toward the back of Batiatus’ cart where I joined Ashur.  The magistrate was still unconscious upon the floor.

I had no words to break.  None whatsoever.

We returned to the road, presumably toward Capua.  Far too soon, we took an unexpected turn and drove on for half an hour longer.

Then, the wagon halted.  Emerging from within, I noted the city outskirts just a shout beyond and a ribbon of road rising toward the cliffs.  We had arrived at some sort of ruin that seemed in oddly good repair.  A half-built structure of some sort?

“Get the door,” Ashur said with a nod to indicate target.  I located it down a half-story of steps.  Opened it.  Aulus carried the magistrate over one beefy shoulder.  Ashur brought the chair and motioned for me to precede him over threshold.

Suddenly, I knew where we were: the city cisterns.

Again, I took the magistrate’s bound feet and we walked for nearly an hour before Ashur directed us around a wall to a platform.  Chair positioned with care, the magistrate was restrained to it.  Soft groans indicated that he was beginning to regain senses.  Ashur gestured Aulus away.  “Relieve me at sunset.”

To me, the Syrian said, “I do not have to explain the importance of your silence on this matter, do I, little man?”

He did not; I was as guilty as them in this crime and, despite acting on the “orders” of my dominus, I would be killed for harming a Roman.  “You need not bother with devising threats,” I hissed.  “I am well aware that discovery leads to forfeiture of life.”

Ashur’s smile was almost kind.  “Ah, there he is.  A man of enlightened self-interest like myself.  I knew he would reveal himself if given proper motivation.”

I returned to the wagon with Aulus, who shackled my wrists and locked the chain to iron ring.  I would have slept during the journey, but every jerk of the cart jostled sore muscles and awkwardly angled joints.  My thoughts strayed again and again toward Magistrate Calavius and Batiatus’ plans for the man.

His plans for me.

By the gods.  If Batiatus no longer sought an alliance with the house of Calavius, he would have no more use for me.  But, perhaps, if Batiatus hoped to secure position as a mentor to Numerius, I might yet reside within the ludus.  Absent vital information, I could expect neither fate with any certainty.

My face ached and my head swam, crushed and crashed between opposing waves.  Again, I was struggling to keep afloat.

Fucking Romans.

The road turned upward and I scolded myself for feeling relief.  There was so much at stake.  Whatever role I would play, I must not allow Agron or Duro to be drawn into it.  Though I would fight at their side in bloody battle, I refused to allow them to fall to shadowy schemes at mine.  When their time came, they deserved an honorable death.

The crack of a whip echoed as the wheels groaned and lurched the final distance.  Was it midday meal or the start of afternoon drills?

The cart came to a rolling stop and Aulus opened the door.

“If pressed for explanation--”  The man’s stale breath pushed its way into my nose.  My jaw clenched against a grimace.  “--you will report that Ashur and I conducted errands after departing the magistrate’s home.  You remained in the cart in ignorance.”

I nodded.  “I neither saw nor heard anything of importance.”

He smirked.  “Syrians.”

My bonds released, I leaped down from the cart and attempted to take measured steps toward the gate lest I give watchful eyes cause to suspect additional mistreatment.  I would prefer not to find myself tasked with providing explanation for the alarming haste clamoring under my skin.  My aim was a simple, seamless return.  Safety, home, family -- so fucking close… yet so easily destroyed.

Doctore waited at ludus entrance, Agron and Duro close behind him, pressing near in their eagerness to see that I yet lived and breathed and had kept fucking promise of returning to their embrace.  I could not restrain my grin at the sight of them.

With a nod, Doctore indicated that I was to be let in.  The guard complied and, suddenly, Agron’s arms were engulfing me.  He tucked his chin against my neck and breathed in, long and deep and relieved.  I returned the silent greeting in kind, clutching his dusty hair.

Fuck the gods.  Yes.

Duro’s hand clamped down upon my other shoulder.  “I’ll fucking kill Hamilcar!  He spoke you bore no injury.”

“His words were true; only a few scratches were received within the arena.”  I flexed my aching arms to draw Duro’s gaze to the long, slender scabs.

Agron leaned away, cupping my face as he took stock of right side and left side, stitches and bruises.  “By whose hand?” he rasped, gruff and gentle, murderous and marveling.

Mindful of Doctore’s hovering presence, I glanced his way.  He arched a brow.  “Dominus would care to know of this.”

I hissed, teeth clenched.  “A friend of Numerius,” I began, telling of the requested demonstration and abundance of drink.  “A boy called Octavius was goaded to strike me and prove himself.  Numerius granted leave to do so and, when I did not fall, it was suggested Octavius make attempt with emptied wine amphora.”

“Fucking--!”

I clamped a hand over Duro’s mouth.  The guards were too close.  Our words were certainly overheard.

Pressing onward, I told, “The celebration was quickly disbanded and a medicus summoned.  Though I took no rest in unfamiliar surroundings, I am otherwise hale.”

Doctore nodded.  “Take midday meal.”  With a stern look, he commanded, “All three of you.”

Agron steered me toward the hall.  Duro flanked me.  Despite their overbearing manner, there was no one else I would have at my side.  Catching Rabanus’ eye, I smiled.  He nodded.  We would break words soon.

I drank from the water barrel as Duro and Agron collected our bowls.

Spartacus approached.  “Your first arena victory -- well done, Nasir.”

“Your instruction played no small part.  Gratitude.”

“Uncomfortable in a wagon, is it not?  On a hot day.”  His gaze dropped to my neck and he gave me a significant look.  “You may wish to wash the… sweat away to avoid discomfort.”

My skin itched where his eyes had focused.  Blood splatter.  Fuck.

“Gratitude,” I muttered again, scooping a second ladle and Spartacus gave me a timely bump, sloshing the water over my fingers.  Rather than allow it to go to waste, I wiped my neck and shoulders.  Agron watched from a short distance, scowling.  I finished my drink, passed the ladle to Spartacus, and sought my usual seat.

Donar was already slurping through his portion at the table Duro and Agron favored.  Duro plopped down at my side and Agron slid close on the other, passing bowl and spoon into my hands.  There was blood under my nails, but I would not be able to clean them until evening ablutions.

“A memorable celebration by the look of you, little man,” Donar remarked.  “Were you fucked hard upside down, tossed from balcony, and dragged behind cart?”

Agron tensed.

I snorted irreverently, basking in the familiar flow of crude words.  “Is this a practice you claim experience of?”

Duro, having long since grown used to our banter, had wisely refrained from swallowing the bite cradled in his spoon.  He now lifted a hand, shook his head, and bid Donar with an expressive wince, “Make no reply, I beg of you.  This thing I would not care to know.”

Agron’s laugh was subdued, but his hand smoothed down my back over the straps still holding my arm guard in place.  A gesture meant to reassure: me, him, both of us.  Our world was yet right-side up and stable.  For the moment.

Donar turned to Duro, describing a celebration at this very house where Rhaskos had been ordered to fuck a slave girl for the entertainment of the guests, and Agron bent his head to speak into my ear: “Your wounds…?”

“Are as you see before you.  I conceal no injury.”

“Yet blood not yours still clings to skin.”

He’d noticed.  Fuck.  “Numerius desired I appear as savage for celebration.”

Agron gave me an expectant look when I offered no more explanation.

I reluctantly added, “Perhaps I was too cautious of recent wounds to bathe thoroughly.”

“I will aid you tonight.”

“Well received.”  I grinned.

He pressed his lips to my temple, murmuring, “You return to my arms.”

He could clearly sense that I withheld something of importance, a weight he would help shoulder, but he would not press.  Not so long as his foremost wish had been granted: I had returned to his arms.

“Always,” I promised, allowing my eyes to close for a moment.

When I opened them once more, I startled, embarrassed to have dozed off leaning against Agron’s shoulder.  Fuck.  At least Duro and Donar seemed deep in discussion of ax-handling; perhaps my moment of weakness had escaped their notice.  Agron’s fingers tensed against my arm, welcoming me back to wakefulness in discreet silence.

Suddenly, I just--I needed to _****move.****_

Thankfully, I caught sight of Lysandros, who was sending me pointed looks.  Eager for a moment of activity, I quickly scraped bottom of bowl and extracted myself from my brothers.  “I rejoin you shortly.”

With a squeeze to Duro’s shoulder and an intimate touch to the back of Agron’s neck, I approached the house slave.

“I heard of your victory,” Lysandros congratulated me.  He then lowered voice and daringly confided, “It gives hope to hands only ever set to mundane purpose that they may yet attain great feats.”

It did, did it not?  By the gods.  I was torn.  If presented choice, I would give soft hands opportunity to grip pommel.  But no.  It was far more likely this would become another pitfall to navigate.  Bartiatus harbored no ambition to be known as the spark which set house slaves to revolt against their Roman masters.

“Come.”  Lysandros bid me to follow.  “I must clean your armor.”

“Gratitude,” I replied, ducking into shadowed ludus corridor and familiar chamber within where I quickly divested myself of arena costume and donned usual wardrobe.  Brown subligaria and thin leather belt.  My normal wear.  All was normal.  Aside from my success in the arena, nothing remarkable had happened over the past day and a half.  Nothing at all.

Returning to the hall, I deliberately crossed paths with Rabanus and offered him my arm.  “For your instruction, I am in your debt.”

He clasped me close in a brotherly embrace.  “How shall I collect?” he mused.

“You do not collect coin from inspired wager?”

Rabanus laughed and shook a finger at me; with one innocent query, I had backed him into a corner.  If he claimed to have bet on my victory, the coin won would cancel my debt.  If he denied putting coin on my skill, he would imply lack of confidence and insult his own abilities as an instructor.  His only recourse was to renounce any affinity for gambling, which we would all know to be false.  “You belong in the Senate, little man.”

“Close mouth, sir,” I implored through a slightly strained smile.  “Or rather, I shall close mine against flow of shit.”

Hamilcar passed close on his way to return his bowl and spoon to Euclid.  “You make a liar of me.”  He gestured to my face.

“Any Roman celebration is twice as perilous as the arena.”

He chuckled, but there was little humor in it.  “Indeed.  Do your Germans make plans to avenge your honor?”

“For the sake of a fair face?” I retorted in answer to the implied violation which caused him some concern.  Apparently, Hamilcar was well aware of the sort of amusements Romans preferred on nights of celebration.  The sentiment was appreciated but unnecessary.

I grinned rakishly: “A small cost for instilling fear upon sight.”

Rabanus argued through a laugh: “It will take considerably more scars than that to see opinion swayed, and I would not have you suffer them lest my instruction be considered lacking.”

I shrugged expansively, playing the role of disappointed, aspiring monster.  “Alas.  Pretty of face I must remain.”

“I will voice no objection,” Agron butted in, the heat from his chest radiating against my back.

“Nor I,” Varro intruded with a wide grin.  He climbed bench and sat ass upon table’s top.  “For it was this face that saw my wager won -- the night of Agron’s return from the arena.”  The man waggled his brows obscenely.

I felt my face heat.  Fuck the gods.  “Do you only ever place wagers on cock?”

To my surprise, everyone within earshot doubled over with laughter.  My confusion was eased by Spartacus who, drawn by our merry gathering, told of a recruit called Segovax who had possessed a truly impressive form and Varro’s impulsive decision to bet “everything on the one with the horse cock.”

“Let us hope,” Duro said from my side, sliding an arm around my neck and drawing me against his chest, “Varro recoups previous losses by betting on our brother Nasir’s good fortune!”

“The pup mauls our lucky Syrian,” Donar complained.

I shoved Duro aside and poked the older German in the chest.  “You make assumption I would claim you as kin.”

He affected a disbelieving look.  “Did I not allow you to best me on the sands?”

I smirked.  “Then by all means, repeat performance and see it well received.”  I yet wished to put the oaf face-down in the dust.  Unfortunately, it would have to wait for another day: Doctore led us through afternoon drills and then Rabanus kept me occupied with light sparring.

The evening meal could not come soon enough… and when it did, I nearly fell to slumber in my bowl of stew.  Agron’s arms saw me to the baths where he cleansed my back and sent me to soak in the warm water while tending to Duro in my stead.  Once Agron was clean as well, the brothers jostled me from my light doze, splashing into the water on either side.

“Nasir!  What sorcery have you worked upon my brother?  I yet have flesh upon back!”

I huffed.

Agron smacked him on the back of head.

Leaning my head on Agron’s shoulder, I closed my eyes.  Warm water and large hands tended to my hair, neck, and shoulders.  Guided me as I pulled myself from the water an indeterminate time later and dried my skin.  I blearily wound a clean subligaria around my hips.  A steadying presence led me to pallet and curled around me.

“Take rest, Nasir,” Agron hummed into my ear and I did.

I woke alone and confused to the sound of the lock springing open.  I scrambled up and lurched into the corridor as Agron was also released from his cell.  Fading fragments of unsettling dreams had me staggering toward his smile.

“Apologies,” he breathed into my ear.  “The guard insisted I return to my cell.”

And I knew I hadn’t imagined his warmth as I’d teetered on the edge of slumber.

Spartacus and Agron claimed my time during morning training, Agron presenting as opponent while Spartacus gave instruction on more acrobatic maneuvers such as vaults, leaps, and the like.  With my face yet healing, true sparring was not recommended.

I regretted putting Donar off: “Allow wound an additional day or two to heal; I would not wish to frighten you overmuch and gain unfair advantage.”

The man shook his head on a laugh, patted my shoulder, and challenged: “I would say a little dog such as you needs every advantage he can get.”

Fucking German.

Agron and Duro hovered at every opportunity.  I shoved them out of my immediate space with tolerant grins… at first.  But by day’s end, I was well and truly done with tripping over the both of them.  I sat with Varro at evening meal, ignoring the neither-blue-nor-gold-nor-green eyes that focused upon me with every other heartbeat and the dark brown gaze that flicked in my direction less frequently but with frustrating regularity.

“Not that I complain of welcome company,” Varro mused between bites of overcooked onion-and-barley sludge, “but you might show the poor shits mercy.”

“For what injury?”

Varro sighed and scowled at the contents of his bowl.  “When you did not emerge from cart with the others, Agron was…”  He shook his head, unable or unwilling to give voice to words.  “Liscus, the opportunistic fuck, accused that only a fool would believe you capable of surviving the arena.  Duro nearly took his head for that, but he heeded Hamilcar’s vow that you stood victorious.  Doctore swore you yet lived and would return on the morrow at latest.  But Agron…”  Varro scanned the empty yard, searching for words among the churned sand.  “Agron was a man absent sense until wagon’s approach was heard and Doctore called him to the gate for your arrival.”

A man absent sense.  I could bring no clear image or estimation to mind of Agron so affected.  Had he lashed out with rage or withdrawn in silence?  Or both in turns?

My throat locked down.  Fuck.  I had too readily dismissed what sinister thoughts might plague him -- or Duro for that matter -- when my return had been delayed.  I had expected them to worry; I had not considered the possibility of abject fear and loss of hope.  I had endured difficulty enough when he and Duro had departed for the arena; a mere day -- from dawn to dusk -- had elapsed before I had been given proof irrefutable that they both yet lived.  Agron and his brother had been forced to endure more than double that duration for the same reassurance.

“Gratitude, Varro,” I whispered, chagrined.

He tossed me a boyish grin and nudged my elbow.  “Go sit with your Germans.  The dice call my name.”

“Keep them waiting, friend,” I encouraged, “and wager coin on a worthy Syrian.”

His laughter saw me to my feet.  Agron was watching me yet again, eyeing my approach until I straddled the bench beside him, leaned forward, and kissed his lips.  His spoon clattered into near-empty bowl and his hands quickly cupped our mouths.

The tight squeeze of his closed eyes, the urgent ache in his expression, the needy press of his lips erased my lingering irritation.  He had feared me dead.  He had endured having no knowledge of my fate for a night that must have felt unending and the excruciatingly lengthy morning that had followed.  Even now, sharp claws of terror hooked into heart and mind.

I allowed him to end the kiss at his leisure and, when he slowly released me, I spoke, “It will take more than the sands of the arena and a few drunken, Roman boys to keep me from your arms.”

“Next time, my faith will be stronger.”

Next time.  Fuck the gods, there likely would be a next time.  I would fight again and, should I emerge the victor, Numerius might once more request my company.

Well.  I would not dwell on it today.

I summoned a smile.  “Your strength inspires my intent to greatness.”

Duro rolled his eyes.  “Words worthy of fucking poets,” he grumbled at me.

“Poets do not hold my interest,” I informed, still gazing upon his older brother with reverence.

“Ugh.  Varro has earned a thrashing.  He sends us a simpering, lovesick fool who wears familiar face of brother and warrior.”

I reached a hand across the table and gripped Duro’s wrist.  “Shall I see you upon the sands on the morrow and rob you of complaints with a sound thrashing?”

“Ha!  You may, little brother.”  He stood, pulling away with a knowing look and a nod toward Agron.  “But see to this one first.  He’s useless as tits on a duck.”

Agron released a frustrated breath but did not deny the estimation.

“It will be done,” I promised, my gaze already returning to Agron at the sound of Duro’s departing footsteps.  My lover’s unshaven cheeks cradled in my palms, I invited, “Do what you must to set mind at ease once and for all.”

It was all the invitation Agron required, standing and sweeping me toward nearest ludus entrance with long brushes from rough fingertips.  His lips and hands guided me to his cell.  His weight pressed me down upon pallet.  He nudged nose against mine, mouth begging for attention, large body braced over me yet readily revealing weakness.  I could topple him from the bed with swift twist of hips and jab from knee if his touch were no longer desired.  For whatever reason.

I urged him closer.

If there were eyes upon us -- those of guards or ludus slaves or gladiators -- so be it.  I chose not to look beyond Agron.  There was nothing worthy of notice beyond his skin and gaze and lips.

He loved sweat and tears from me.  Exertion and joy and sheer, shocking beauty.  My teeth clamped around whatever bits of either him or the pallet that I could trap between them.  Gasps and spit and my essence shooting over our skin.  He wiped his hands upon the bed, his eyes burning with an intensity I had not witnessed before.

“We have created a mess,” I remarked, trembling in the wake of his hunger.

His mouth curled softly.  “I took required action to ease mind,” he murmured.  Lowering himself to my heaving torso, he buried his face in my disheveled hair and inhaled as if the scent stood as his final meal.  “When you are absent from my arms in the night and false memory seeks foothold, I shall have this to remind me.”

This.  The scent of me rising up from his pallet to surround him.  The echo of our passion.  A faint remnant of truth: I lived.

I grasped his head in my hands and pushed until his face lifted and our gazes met.  “I will always return to you.  So long as your arms are open to me, so long as I draw breath, I will find a way.”

And if no way presented itself, he would know where to find me.  When the gods finished with him and at last allowed him to set foot upon path to the afterlife, I would be there.  Waiting.  Smiling a welcome.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s now safe to assume that Magistrate Titus Calavius has insulted Batiatus (and Nasir wasn’t present to overhear it). Perhaps the "leave politics to the men with the breeding for it" remark happened in the pulvinus during the games (either the one in this part or the one back in Part 2: The Brotherhood) or maybe even on the night of Nasir’s test (in Part 1: The Recruit). 
> 
> Regardless, Ashur and Aulus seize the chance to set Batiatus’ mad plans for revenge in motion. Unluckily for Nasir, he gets conscripted to help. Though Nasir does his best to forget it ever happened, you will see that he’s too savvy to let himself stay fooled for long: Nasir is now locked in Batiatus' "arena," one which not even Barca the Beast of Carthage could escape. So... no pressure, eh?
> 
> I now await your reaction, fandom friend! (^_^)


	3. Holding Secrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: more sexytimes (I know, I know, you're so disappointed)

 

Fuck.

I had known this moment was coming.  Ever since Agron had spoken of Duro’s tumble in the arena.

Duro had as well -- he’d nearly broken words on it the day he’d fought Crixus and offered explanation at cliff’s edge.  The day he’d defended his brothers and wept with the rain.

Agron, however, had not.

My lover froze, shoulders rounded and fists clenched.

My young brother grinned, spine arrowing with intent.  Duro quirked a brave brow and crowed: “At last!  Seize glory absent my aid, brother.  If you can.”

Doctore looked from one young German to the other, his gaze lingering on Agron’s silent and inward-turned anger.  Assessing.  Words spoken just moments previous vibrated in the morning breeze: _****“Train side by side no longer as you will receive no benefit from endeavor when you next set foot within the arena.”****_

Batiatus had made decree: the German brothers would be separated.

I swallowed.

As Doctore shifted to leave us to collect our morning portions, Agron found his voice, entire body jolting, “What of my brother’s opponent?”

“Yet undecided.”  The man’s dark eyes were not completely absent compassion, but they held no tolerance for negotiation.  “See yourselves to victory separately, win the favor of the crowd, and _****perhaps****_  be reunited upon the sands.”

With that, Doctore left us.

Seething fury boiled under Agron’s taut skin.  Muscles twitched with impotent, helpless rage.

_****“Agron will always be an older brother.”** ** _

Duro’s words.  I had never witnessed their truth more clearly.  Regardless of Duro’s increasing proficiency in skill and strength of body, Agron would never willingly leave his little brother to face opponent absent his presence.  Whether Agron interceded or not, he would stand close at hand.

I suddenly thought of my brother’s frantic call -- _****“Nasir!”****  _\-- in the smoldering ruins of tents and bodies, blood and sand.  Agron was being forced to set aside an older brother’s most sacred duty.

I swiftly punched Duro in the shoulder.  “The glory will be yours as will the mockery.  Fall to my spear today and I will laugh in your face.”

“Ha!  I need no weapon to laugh in yours.”

I struck -- threading an arm between his crooked elbow and back and kicked at his knee.  He lurched and I caught his neck in a secure hold.  He struggled obstinately, but I would not be dislodged from his back absent throwing his full weight against table, wall, or floor.

“Fuck!” he wheezed, attempting to shrug me off.

Chuckles and laughter rolled toward us.  Agron stared, gaze burning with ferocity sparked by fear: Duro could not be so complacent during his upcoming match.  He absolutely could not.

“A familiar sound,” I remarked pleasantly of the mirthful chorus.  “Such a reception I was given in the arena.”

Duro stopped squiggling in my grip.  His chin jerked and I heard the scowl in his tone: “They mocked you?  Yet you won?”

“I won _****because****_  the shits mocked me,” I retorted, releasing him before Doctore elected to intervene.  Grabbing Duro’s shoulders, I gave him a shake.  “Give any man who would force you to submit reason to regret his actions.”

“Hm.  Well.  In that case--”  He lunged for me.

I dodged, wove.

It was Agron who shoved both of us from the stone of the hall and out onto the sand.  Duro objected to the treatment with a colorful shout.  I stumbled, braced myself, and took advantage of his distraction: I attacked.  Upsetting Duro’s balance with a shoulder to tender spot beneath breastbone, I grabbed his knees and tumbled him.

He landed hard with legs sprawled on either side of my feet.  When he rolled, his ankles tangled with mine and I crashed to the sand.  He mauled me onto my belly and I butted against him with back of skull, cracking him in the face.

“Fuck!” he yelped.  I quickly braced one arm against the sand and the other upon his chest, used every muscle in my upper body to twist him aside.

But where Agron would use his strength to subdue an opponent, Duro slipped and wiggled like an eel, escaping my hold.  We tussled, rolled, pushed-and-shoved.  Our bellies rumbled in concert and Duro laughed but did not forfeit.

Stubborn fucks, both of us.

But then, once again, I found myself on my back with a German perched upon chest.

I huffed.  He grinned.  Eyes rolling with mocking forbearance, I grumbled, “Very well.  Crow to your little friends of mighty victory.”

“And with your blessings!” he chortled, straightening.

Duro threw his shoulders back to affect boastful pose, unaware that our fight was not yet finished.

As he shifted, I retaliated.  The strategy I had thought to use to unseat his brother saw results: I arched my spine and wedged myself onto my elbows.  Balance upset, Duro rocked backward just far enough -- I curled my hips up, winding both legs along back and shoulders, my feet hooking around his neck and face.

Duro shouted, sputtered.  “Goatfuck!” he spat, somersaulting clear of my dusty sandals.

I gained my feet as well, grinning as he scrubbed frantically at his face.  A satisfied chuckle gusted from my nose.

“Goat piss and swine shit, Nasir!  Your feet are fucking foul!”

Agron came off of the steps.  “Then fill mouth with food next.”

With relief, I noted that Agron’s crossed arms framed a bright, determined gaze.  I could guess the cause: Duro had fought well.  Persistently and with skill.

However, he had ceded moments after I had gained advantage.

Duro did not burn with the same invincible bloodlust that possessed Agron and set his powerful body to purpose.  Duro stood as a man who must first gather his courage before setting hands to task, just as when he’d voluntarily challenged Crixus for just cause -- a venture undertaken upon Duro’s terms.

Having fought in the arena, I knew there were no guarantees.  A man would have the upper hand until he did not: fortune could shift in the blink of an eye.

That would be our battle, then, Agron’s and mine: we would invoke Duro’s will until it became as instantaneous, unshakable, and _****unstoppable****_  as Agron’s fury.  We would push him to battle on even after the tide had turned and he found himself at disadvantage.

For now, however, we ate.

I scanned the hall absently, looking past Varro’s shoulder and Donar’s head.  I would have to break words with Rabanus to express my desire to spar with Duro for a time today.  Perhaps Spartacus might also volunteer…

Spartacus.  Where was he?

“Talented legs,” Donar suddenly spoke, sending me a lascivious grin and I was abruptly tumbled back into the memory of wrestling with Duro.  “Agron is a lucky fuck.”

Agron scowled faintly, confusion tweaking his brow.  “You favor cunt.”

The older German shrugged in lazy agreement.  “And if I met one as skilled as Nasir, I might just keep her.”

My eyes narrowed in warning.  Lips parted to draw breath for insult--

Spartacus.  There he was, emerging from shadowed ludus corridor.  That was odd -- he was never so late to rise and break his fast.  And besides, his cell was located across the yard rather than indoors.

As he paused to collect his meal, I noticed his hair had been trimmed.  Ah, he’d been to the medicus, then, who was charged with such tasks in addition to assessing and treating injuries.

A bump against my elbow brought my attention back to our gathering.  Duro goaded, “If you hold no intent to answer the oaf’s challenge, I will see to it.”

With a snort, I obligingly offered retort to Donar: “Take care with your wishes lest you find yourself at the mercy of her pleasure to the detriment of yours.”

“Ooh,” Varro chuckled.  “We are given a glimpse of Agron’s true place.”

Agron smirked.  “I’m most fortunate to have such a man between my thighs.”

I choked absent gob of porridge in gullet.  My face flamed.  Agron pressed a noisy, wet kiss to my cheek and what could I do other than turn to him and beam?  “Fucking German.”

He giggled.  “See it done!”

Duro pointed empty spoon at Donar and accused, “You started this.”

“And no one,” I interjected, “other than Agron and myself will finish it.  Close fucking mouths.”

The order earned me another kiss -- this one was whiskery and sneakily tucked behind my ear.  I resisted the shiver but, hunched down and nuzzling into my hair as he was, Agron undoubtedly felt the clench of my jaw against his cheek.  I shoved lightly at his chest.  He sat up straight, lips stretched into a smile.

Spartacus joined us.  “I trust I’ve missed nothing of note,” he muttered tiredly and frowned when the comment was answered with five snorting giggles.

Morning drills were nearly completed when a shout from Medicus called a guard to the infirmary.  There was some commotion, and Doctore signaled the Veteran to take over as he sought explanation.  No information was offered to us, of course.  It wasn’t until nearly midday meal when a cart rolled up to the gate and a body was carried out of the ludus.  Both Duro and I paused in our match to gape.

“Who the fuck is that?” he grouched.

 _ ** **Aulus,****_  I did not say.  A chill speared my gut.  “He must be a man of Batiatus.”

The sight of him reminded me of Magistrate Titus Calavius, tied up and held in Capua’s cisterns.  I had not seen Ashur in recent days, and now Aulus was dead.

What of my fate?

The flat of wooden blade tapped my arm, drawing my attention to Duro.  Given the man’s easy smile and exuberant nature, I often overlooked his shrewd skill in observation: “Your eyes hold secrets.”

I would not lie unless necessary.  Instead, I agreed obliquely, “My eyes hold what any former body slave’s would.”

“That life lies in the past.  This speaks of your new.”  Duro nodded toward the gate and the cart being loaded: “Was that not the man who accompanied your return following fucking Roman celebration?”

“They share a likeness.”

Duro stared at me for a very long, weighty moment.  “Do not think Agron and I cannot account for time.”

“Pardon?”

“We feared you dead for an entire night and half a day.”  Duro challenged, “Only a short trip by cart is required to travel between here and Capua.  What task would take so long and delay your return?”

“Medicus finished treatment very late--”

“And you spent from dawn to midday breaking fucking fast the following morning?”

“Do not ask--”

“I ask.”  Duro thrust out his chin in defiance.  “I ask because brothers do not keep secrets from each oth--”

“Can you not think of a reason why a brother might?”  I returned glare, willing him to understand.

He reared back, scanning my form with critical gaze.  “You told you suffered no additional injuries, but there was blood beneath fingernails.”

“Cease words,” I bit out, squashing my desperation.  “Doctore takes note of idleness.”

It was a bluff, but Duro did not cast his gaze toward the Numidian to confirm it.  He lifted sword and shield.

I readied spear.

Duro let loose one final parting shot: “Whatever Agron and I might imagine stands worse than the words you withhold.”

I envied his certainty, but held my tongue.

That night, after Duro tiredly shuffled toward his cell for slumber, I tucked my hand into Agron’s where it rested upon the pallet between us and whispered, “Do you see secrets when you cast gaze upon me?”

With his other hand, Agron gently tucked escaped strands of hair into the twists that I wore.  “Secrets, yes, but that is not all I see.”  Before I could ask, he offered, “I see a trusted friend, fierce brother, and caring lover.  What would you have me offer in exchange for the thoughts you keep?”

My jaw clenched, teeth mashing together against waves of helplessness.  “Neither you nor Duro must attempt to break words on this.”

For the first time since the night before Agron and Duro’s appearance in the arena -- _****“** **This is a ploy, then?”****  _\-- he seemed uncertain of my meaning.  “Would you tell of it if your welfare hung in the balance?”

I could not answer.  I would not lie to him, but the truth would only bring more questions.  His curiosity was sharp enough.  I pushed myself out of his loose embrace and up from his pallet.

“Good night,” I bid, pressing a lingering kiss to his lips.

He leaned into the touch, his fingers ghosting over my bare shoulders.  “Wait.  Stay.  Time yet remains.”

I let out a long breath and eased onto his lap.  He approved with a soft noise of welcome, nudging the tip of his nose alongside mine.  Our lips brushed.

“Would you have me between your thighs?” I asked suddenly.

His eyes squeezed shut.  Jaw unhinged.  Breath panted against my lips.  “Yes.”

I scratched the blunt edges of my nails through the scruff upon his cheeks.  “That would require use of skills you once objected to.”

His forehead tilted against mine.  I could hear him swallow.  “I made no objection to -- um -- argh! Fucking words escape grasp,” he warned.  “I only--your desire inflames.  Your pleasure satisfies.  So long as it is genuine.”

Curling a hand around the back of his neck, I recalled our time together in the bath at month’s end: the wildness.  No thought.  No words.  Hands moving absent task.  We had come together as animals, seeking pleasure for pleasure’s sake, taking from each other as if we held a natural right to satisfy desire absent fear of consequence.

I hummed against his lips.  “Do not mistake careful touch for lack of desire.”  I reminded him, “You are no Roman.  I desire _****you:****_  Agron.”

His breath hitched, caught, and then his mouth was upon mine, hungry-hot-mindless.  I stroked fingers down to his jaw to nudge and coax.  There would be no taming him, this I knew, but I would make request.   _ ** **Slow,****_  I implored with my own lips.   _ ** **Tender,****_  I taught with shallow glide of tongue.   _ ** **Explore,****_  I invited, grasping his wrists and guiding his palms to my chest.

It was a variation on the theme he seemed to favor: rather than taking from him, I would have him offer the touch I desired.  He accommodated me so readily, passionately, wholly.  The scrape of teeth upon neck loosened my spine with submission, a pinch to nipple caused a soundless gasp, kisses descending center of chest brought forth a smile of anticipation.  My back upon the pallet.  His soft beard stubble tickled my belly and I bit my lip to halt helpless laughter.  My hands in his hair, pushing him away from tender flesh, soon held him still as he nuzzled-licked-nipped the taut plane beneath subligaria’s edge.

He paused and I, gasping in silence, met his upturned gaze.  His fingers worked the fabric loose with speed and dexterity that shortened breath.

His whisper puffed along my belly: “The guard arrives soon.  I must be quick.”

An apology.  It belatedly occurred to me that he was offering an apology.  A completely unnecessary apology.

By the gods, his mouth was my undoing.  He drew me into relentless heat, deep and slick, across the wide cradle of tender tongue and between taut grip of lips.  His hands slid to cup my hips and urge a rhythm I would not have dared -- I would have fought instinct tooth and nail -- absent irresistible encouragement.

_****“I desire this.”** ** _

I shuddered, thrust, took-offered-gave.  I trusted.

My fingers tensing in his hair.  My bare legs wound around his shoulders, thighs clenching against his ears, heels digging into his back.  Fuck the gods.

I surged up onto one elbow to watch him rock his nose against musky skin.  He returned my gaze and I felt a thrill of fear that he would devour me in a frenzy, but his fingers glided along my thighs softly and I shuddered, heat thrumming through my arching spine in a rushing tide.

My mind fled and my head-veins-skin filled with waves of shimmering pleasure, pulsing and rolling--

Oh.

Oh.

Agron.

Fuck.

I collapsed upon pallet, spent and stunned.  By the gods, he had used none of the refined techniques I had learned, but he had utterly destroyed me.  Without the sensation-softening aid of wine, I was left doubly wrecked.

Perhaps his words held some merit: the wanton abandon itself was the best reward.

He rose over me and the look he gifted--yes.

Romans were pathetic fucking shits to settle for empty-eyed slaves to sate their desires when a look such as this was real.  I pitied them.

Agron’s passion made for encounters so powerful, and his affection molded every sensation with exquisite beauty and tenderness.  I had never known such a thing before him:

“My lover,” I marveled on a whisper.

Agron smiled, slow and sweet, and awed me into thick-throated silence.  I extended a trembling hand over his long back, around his waist, and toward the cradle of his subligaria.  He rolled his hips into my touch as my fingers followed skin… and found spent flesh and damp fabric.

Tilting a low groan into his ear, I licked the soft lobe, sucked.  Overwhelmed by renewed heat at the thought of my pleasure stirring his passion to such heights, my mouth moved messily against whatever skin I discovered.  My lips nuzzled the fading bruise upon his throat; he shuddered, pulse speeding.

Footsteps.  The gentle clank of armor.

I cursed.

Agron reluctantly drew back and I watched uselessly as his trembling hands retied my subligaria.  I stood shakily, attaining vertical just as the guard stomped to a halt outside the closed grate.  Agron attempted to tweak my hair into some semblance of order while I moved toward the door.  Eventually, I batted his hands away with a playful smile.  He giggled and I fell in love with him anew.

Fuck the gods.

That night, as I lay upon pallet, I wondered if I should have made attempt to describe and detail the depth of my affections.  Yet the thought of putting words to these sensations was… no.  No, I had been allowed so little for my own in my life.  Even when I had served Varro’s father, my dominus’ needs and comfort and peace of mind had come before my own.  Now that my heart had awakened -- first with fear for Varro and then with rage at myself and now with love for my Germans -- I reveled in these emotions.  I guarded them as I would protect precious possessions.  Though I knew it to be nonsense -- no man would be able to rip sentiment from my grasp -- I held tightly.

Amazingly, Agron did not seem to mind.  His heart spoke through touch, a language he trusted perhaps more than words.  More than Roman words.

Instantly, I resolved to one day learn the tongue spoken by those east of the Rhine.  If I ever gave Agron the words, I would not have Roman tongue be their bearer.

 


	4. Hand and Knife

 

Nightmares.

Slumber claimed me roughly, pulled me from one strange vision to another, yanked me from Agron’s arms, tossed me against Duro’s side, pushed me from Spartacus, and pried my grip from Varro’s hand.  The clanking cough of key in lock shocked my eyes open and I rolled groggily to my feet.  Setting eyes upon my brothers lent aid in dismissing restless visions.  An embrace, a smile, and a kiss from Agron lifted spirits.  A second embrace from Duro, a playful smothering against smelly armpit, and an irreverent laugh at my show of gagging saw my focus fixed upon the coming training rather than the dubious haven of my cell.

The day unfolded absent aberration and I wondered how the Veteran had survived the utter boredom of this place year upon year.  No wonder Agron and Duro had been willing to accept dialog and discussion as payment for their assistance with my training.

I sparred, spear in hand and heavy thoughts weighing mind, first with Donar, then against Duro, and thirdly Varro.  Following midday meal, Hamilcar faced me with a weighted, wooden ax against sword gripped tightly in my grasp.  At every strike upon my shield, I tumbled, lurched, or stumbled.

At my fifth fall, or perhaps it was the sixth now, the man chuckled and offered me a hand up.  “The ax is not your weapon, little man.”

How many times must I tell these slow fucks not to call me that?  I bared my teeth.  “My quarrel is with the hands that wield it.”

“Which you are nowhere near defeating.”

A fact of which I stood well aware; I had not even been able to best Duro when he’d armed himself with ax, and my young German brother stood the least experienced of all Batiatus’ titans… myself excluded.  Frustrated, I bit out, “Advice would be well received.”

He huffed a laugh.  “Fetch Duro.  I would instruct both of you.”

Midway through the afternoon, disgusted with my lack of strength to withstand even a half-hearted ax blow, I took up the beam again, racing from cliff’s edge to far wall.  Back and forth.  Then Rabanus challenged me and I fought as if Agron and Duro’s lives depended upon every blow.

I fought and I fell time and time again as my mind drifted toward Aulus, toward the cisterns, toward the game Batiatus played.  Was my usefulness expired?  Or would Ashur appear, smirk upon lips, and make further demands as his gaze slid threateningly toward my Germans?

Fuck.

A simple maneuver and brute strength -- both of which I should have seen and countered easily -- knocked me to the ground, my skull bouncing with an unpleasant-sounding _****smack!****_   

My arms twitched, but I could not summon the effort to roll aside and regain feet.  My body was too heavy with exhaustion.  I groaned, curled up, and resisted the urge to vomit.

“You make improvement,” Rabanus mocked, clearly disappointed with my performance.

“You make jest,” I wheezed.

“Whatever thoughts guide your hands today will see you dead tomorrow.  Strike them from mind and find effort received absent mockery.”

That counsel I accepted with a wobbly smile.  “Gratitude,” I said, and though I was sincere, what I truly desired to know was if the time for evening meal was yet upon us.  I doubted I stood capable of adequate focus absent a full night’s rest uninterrupted by either unsettling surroundings or visions.

The crack of the whip answered my unvoiced plea, but today the call differed from the usual order to rest and take food:

“Gladiators!” Doctore shouted, “Assemble!”

Assemble?

My gaze skittered across the yard and I shared a frown with Agron and Duro; in my time at the ludus, Doctore had never called us to attention in this manner unless we were to witness the arrival or testing of new recruits.  As one, we three looked to the balcony, but it stood empty.

Doctore continued, “Dominus attends to business on your behalf.” 

At this announcement, several of the more experienced men stiffened, focusing on Doctore’s announcement with interest.  I braced myself.

“Magistrate Titus Calavius has been found dead,” Doctore informed.

 _ ** **Breathe,****_  Tiberius coached.  _****Reveal nothing and breathe.****_

“Funeral games to honor his memory will take place in four days.  The final selection of fighters has not yet been decided.”

But I could guess who would take part: Spartacus, as Numerius’ favorite, and myself, as the gladiator Numerius sponsored.

Fuck the gods.  I had participated, albeit under orders of my dominus, in setting the magistrate’s foot upon path to the afterlife and now I would also be set to task of honoring his memory in the arena?

What jests the gods made of us.

“Tonight, take meal and rest.  On the morrow, prepare yourselves!”  With those instructions, we were dismissed from training.

Neither Agron nor Duro broke words on the games.  Duro patted my shoulder, brows beetled in concern.  Agron saw past my mask of calculated nonchalance, tilted my chin up with dry, friction-warmed fingers, and leaned down for a quick, chaste kiss.  I was thankful for their support, but my smile was weak and I was well aware my silence unnerved them both.

Donar and Varro offered conversation: Varro had attended funeral games once as a spectator two years ago, but Donar had participated in another.  Both men agreed that the schedule of events would differ from regular games as it was doubtful enough wild beasts could be obtained on short notice for the mock hunts.

Their words flowed past me absent comprehension.  I pressed my thigh against Agron’s and bumped elbows with Duro.  This was becoming our standard formation when I faced daunting task.  Once Agron finished his portion, his hand settled upon my back.  I found it easier to breathe, to swallow, to think.

Though I still knew not what to expect of my future.

It came as no surprise when Spartacus and I were summoned.  I squeezed Duro’s shoulder too hard and cradled Agron’s neck, pressing a desperate kiss to his temple.  I did not look back to meet their curious gazes.

“Nasir, something troubles you?” Spartacus inquired as we quickly made ourselves presentable.

I nodded.  “As can be expected under these circumstances.”

He digested that in a moment of quiet.  “I’m told the customs of funeral games stand apart.”

Generally, they did.  These games, as it turned out, would be no exception:

“Death!” Batiatus declared with a grand sweep of his arms.  “Death to the villain and his men.  No mercy will be shown.”  He pointed a finger at me, baring his teeth.

For a single, wild moment, I took this to mean that I would stand as the villain who had robbed the magistrate of life.  But no.  Surely not.  I would not permit such thoughts until I stood accused in plain words.  In the meantime, I drew a slow breath and shrank behind the careful mask of Tiberius.

“Every match will be a fight to the death,” Batiatus explained gleefully.  He paced from one side of his office to the other, senses clearly waxing and waning.  Was it customary for our dominus to rant thus?

When the Roman’s back turned, I slid a glance toward the champion and my blood ran cold.  Spartacus’ gaze flicked to a carelessly placed knife upon the side table.  Once, twice, a third time.

“Spartacus!” Batiatus cried, spinning around with dramatic flair.  “Numerius has made request that you perform the execution."

“Execution?” the Thracian inquired with polite curiosity.  There was nothing in his manner to indicate the overwhelming pull of mutiny.  Surely nothing shy of burning hatred and desperation could cause Spartacus’ gaze to drift toward weapon of opportunity so many times, yet his manner was perfectly calm.

By the gods, I had never felt fear of this champion of gladiators as I did now.

“Yes,” Batiatus drawled with a smug grin.  “Our friend Solonius was found, dagger in hand, looming over the corpse.”  He mimed the scene gleefully before turning gaze toward Spartacus to warn: “He is as cunning as he is wrinkled!  And a man of some training.  Do not let down your guard in the arena.  Numerius also desires to see you in the primus and injury would see us truly fucked.”

Spartacus nodded, face as fixed as that of a statue.  “It will be done, Dominus.”

“Hm, very good.  Very good.  And now, our Syrian Nasir.”  The sharp smile gleamed my way.  “I have not forgotten the injury you sustained while under charge of Numerius--”  Of course not.  The stitches had not yet been removed.  “--and neither has he.  Your young patron has told he regrets those events and wishes to make amends.”  Arms akimbo, Batiatus delivered what he clearly intended to be glad news:  “He offers a most prestigious match worth much coin and opportunity to further your reputation."

“Gratitude, Dominus.”  I could think of nothing else to say.

“It will be a proud day,” he enthused, basking in the promise of his rival’s public humiliation.  “This ludus will show that cock-eater and his pissants the true worth of the mighty titans of Batiatus!”

At this, I found my voice: “Apologies for the interruption, Dominus.”  When he gestured impatiently for me to speak, I inquired, “We are to face Solonius’ men?”

“Exclusively.  Of course other lanistas will be invited as a courtesy, but justice will be done.  Yes, yes, _****yes,****_ this is the end of Solonius’ legacy in Capua!  Finally, the man is crushed beneath heel!  A glad day for us all.”

He pivoted and regarded us both.  I almost dared a glance at Spartacus to gauge what sort of response our dominus would find pleasing.  A stony stare or idiotic grin?  In the end, I merely gave my best attempt to appear receptive.

Batiatus bobbed his head and waved us away.  “Go, then.  Go.  Take rest and prepare yourselves for the games.”

The games.  Unbelievably, I would be returning to the arena a mere week after surviving my first match upon its sands.

If Spartacus did not get all of us killed first.

“Your darting gaze speaks words that tongue withholds,” I told as soon as the ludus gate locked shut at our backs and we had left the guards behind.

To his credit, he did not deny the observation.  “I could say the same of you.”

He could -- I had been ill at ease since Aulus’ body had been brought out as anyone with eyes would have noticed -- but should Spartacus press the issue, would I answer?

I considered both responses and risks implied.

Choice was made the moment my thoughts turned toward Agron and Duro, Varro and Donar.  All known allies of Spartacus.  Their lives could very well be tied to this Thracian’s intent, which seemed mutinous at best.

In exchange for learning what grudge a reigning champion carried that would warrant the theft and possibly concealment of weapon, an act which may see more than one man to the afterlife… yes.  Yes, I would state my own grievance, but not plainly and most certainly not in echoing corridors.

Thus decided, I nodded him away from the baths and toward the infirmary where Doctore had broken words in confidence with me.  A glance showed the rooms we passed to be empty, but I kept my voice lowered nonetheless: “Batiatus is exceptionally pleased with Solonius’ guilt.”

Spartacus gave me a long look, assessing my meaning.  “You were late returning to the ludus following celebration at the Calavius domus.”

“Hours unaccounted for,” I agreed.  “The same was true of Aulus.  If inquiries were made, one would find Ashur’s return further delayed.”

“Aulus can no longer answer questions.”

I quirked a brow.  “Following your absence yesterday morning.”

He made no effort at denial.  “I broke words with the man who delivered my wife Sura to this ludus on orders of his dominus.”

“Words were the sum total of all things broken?”

“Some acts may have been necessary to convince him to share truth.”  Spartacus’ jaw clenched.  “Three men conspired to rob Sura of life.  Two yet remain unattended.”

The one who had already fallen was clearly Aulus, a man well-heeled by his master; he would not have acted unless ordered to do so by Batiatus.  Spartacus held claim to grudge, indeed.  One that would see our master dead and all of us doomed.  Fuck the gods.

And Batiatus himself -- to have ordered the death of a man’s wife in order to further some favored agenda -- he stood a true Roman monster… within whose net all of us were tangled.

 _ ** **Breathe,****_  I commanded myself.   _ ** **Breathe.****_

Agron and Duro yet lived, but I knew with sudden certainty that they were not safe.  I should have realized it sooner; if Batiatus would have permitted Varro’s death in order to secure an alliance with the magistrate, then he would think nothing of sacrificing a German life -- or any number of lives -- for the sake of his ambitions.

A hand gripped my shoulder and I realized I’d swayed on my feet.

“You would have vengeance,” I rasped.

“If you had not been at my side, I would have taken it tonight.”

With a shake of my head, I hissed, “It matters not.  If he falls at the hand of one slave, then all are put to death.   _ ** **All,****_  Spartacus!  Even should we escape the villa with our lives, we would be branded fugitives of Rome and hunted.  You would do this to Varro?  You would place his wife and child in peril of Roman reprisal?”

The Thracian’s expression twitched and twisted with pain-grief-fury.

“Besides,” I sighed, “there is no time.”

His eyes narrowed in question.

“Legatus Glaber soon arrives in Capua with many men.  What could we do against such a force?”

Spartacus stared hard and long.  “Gaius Claudius Glaber?”

I nodded, wondering why this caused the fire within the man to reignite.

“How did you come by this?”

I admitted: “Numerius spoke of his arrival, boasting to his companions that he would receive the legatus in his father’s stead as the magistrate himself was due at the coast on business.”  Of course, the magistrate had never made it that far.  Spartacus did not ask about my role in his fate.

Instead, the champion realized, “Batiatus will seek Glaber’s favor through Ilithyia.”

There was a story -- an epic -- in the champion’s words.  Hatred and pain and bloodlust.

“If we did strike,” Spartacus bit out on a whisper, “who would stand with us?”

 _ ** **Us?****  _ How and when had I agreed to rebellion?

Despite my shock, though, I knew I would fight.  I would turn sword against any man who would take the lives of my brothers.  I would kill readily, gladly, gleefully.

But did I dare condemn others?  These deeds would be the downfall of all.  As soon as Batiatus lay dead, every one of us would be bound for the afterlife.

_****Is that not the fate of all men?** ** _

With a start, I realized that it was _****Tiberius,****_  the house slave who prized quiet competence, who would stay my hand; _****Nasir****_  thirsted for blood and hungered for battle.  Yet that way lay much uncertainty.  Survival was familiar.  Survival was Tiberius’ sole purpose.  It was too easy to summon him, to listen to his words of caution for the sake of my Germans.

Who would I be here and now?  In this moment?  Nasir and Tiberius pushed and pulled at my mind, whirling in a vortex around a singular intent: protect my brothers.  One goal, two disparate paths.

Perhaps it did not matter which I chose so long as my purpose remained clear.

Meeting Spartacus’ gaze, I told, “Batiatus’ crimes are not yet enough to sway more than a handful to your cause.”

“I would have all made aware of his transgressions.”

I nodded.  The strategy was sound.  “When I speak of what I know, the legatus will question him, Ashur, and myself.”

Spartacus’ head jerked away from the thoughts that had drawn his attention.  “That would mean your death!”

Through my teeth, I breathed, “And the commitment of more men to aim should Batiatus yet escape justice.”

“You would do this to Agron?  To Duro?  To allies who offer respect and friendship?  You would throw your life away?”

“I would open the eyes of all -- we stand not as gods of battle, but as slaves.  Game pieces to be sacrificed at the whims of our dominus.  And I would see those who yet possess the heart of a free man set hands to fucking purpose and reclaim power of choice!”

Spartacus’ palm clamped over my mouth as the final word erupted far louder than prudence allowed.

We held breath.  Listened.

All was still.  Silent.  Only the torch light shifted along the walls.

Spartacus shook his head slowly, resolute.  “You will hold tongue.  For their sake.”

My jaw clenched, but I nodded.

Carefully withdrawing his hand, Spartacus looked away… and froze.

Were we discovered?  Our words overheard?

Heart surging into my mouth, I followed his gaze and--

Fuck.  The.  Gods.

Agron stood at hall’s entrance, eyes wide and mouth tight.

What could I say?  I knew how this must appear: Spartacus pressing close with hand upon my cheek, my fingers grasping his arm to hold him at my side.

Spartacus retreated a judicious step.

I resisted the urge to lower my lashes and bow my head.  I would not behave as if I had been caught in the salacious embrace of another.  Even if it would drive Agron away and protect him from standing accused of subterfuge by virtue of affection or association.  I could not and would not manipulate him.  I was no Roman.

Spartacus said, “Your Syrian expresses doubt in his own ability to survive the arena again so soon.  I trust your methods of ceasing senseless words will yield better results than mine.”

Agron looked from Spartacus to me.

As I cast gaze upon my lover, I was overwhelmingly tempted to push Nasir aside and obey Tiberius’ restraining hand: _****Agree with Spartacus -- it is the arena you fear and nothing else.****_

I trembled.

Whatever Agron saw in my gaze caused his shocked affront to shift.  Warily, he lifted a fisted hand, uncurled his fingers, and beckoned me, “Nasir?”

Nasir.

I was called Nasir.

Agron and Duro -- my brothers -- loved Nasir.  So that was who I would be, but I would not ignore the lessons Tiberius had learned.  Sometimes caution was called for.  As it was now.

Dismissing Spartacus, I joined my lover, sliding my hand into his.  Over his shoulder, I could see no one nearby though the hall was not empty of gladiators seeking recreation.  “Apologies,” I murmured.  “I stood Tiberius the house slave for so many years, and this life of battle is yet so new -- I sometimes forget myself.”

“Then I shall remind you,” he vowed, cradling my face reverently.  His gaze was urgent, pleading with me to give voice to my thoughts, but I could not.  It had been dangerous enough to break words with Spartacus and only then to give the man pause against foolhardy, selfish acts.

“A heavy burden,” I warned.

Agron hunched down until our gazes leveled.  “One I would share.  Allow me to shoulder weight.  Allow _****me.”****_

I petted his cheeks.  “Soon,” I temporized, and then dared to give reminder: “Intent stands unchanged--”  My voice was soft but my tone made fierce with sudden understanding as my truest self was revealed.  “--I would yet _****fight.”****  _ Slay.  Suffer.  Survive.

A flash of adoration and agony rippled through his entire body, from crunched brows and misty eyes to pursed lips and caressing hands.  Yes, Agron knew how easily a man could succumb to death and how difficult the mere act of drawing breath could be.

“I cannot break words this night,” I apologized, “but I swear to you I am meant for your arms.”

“You ask much,” he informed, voice thick, “from a man who seeks to protect you.”

“You cannot.  Not from this.”  Not from Batiaus’ schemes or Spartacus’ quest for revenge.  All I could do now was keep sense of surroundings and my head above crashing waves.

Agron nuzzled my palm, wrist, and forearm as my fingers reached up to dance over his clean, damp hair, memorizing every slope and texture and nuance.  My lover could not protect me.  I must protect myself.

“Time yet remains,” I reminded both of us.  “So let us have from each other what the gods allow.”

He shifted close, molding his form to mine.  “Fuck the gods.”

I grinned and held on tight.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case the sequence of events (off-screen) was confusing in the last chapter (Chapter 3: Holding Secrets) this is how Aulus ends up dead in this fic: Spartacus reports to Medicus for a haircut and finds Aulus snoring on the examination table with a bandage around his throat. (Yes, Magistrate Calavius bit him in the cisterns and Aulus came by for treatment.) Medicus cuts Spartacus’ hair and then decides to go lie down (because treating Aulus at such a late/early hour disturbed his beauty sleep or some such -- speaking of which, I cannot wait for you to meet my version of the ludus medicus and all his amazing snark BUT ANYWAY!) this is how Spartacus ends up alone with Aulus. 
> 
> The rest follows pretty closely with the TV series: Spartacus notices Aulus doesn’t have any scars from the wounds he supposedly gained while trying to protect Sura during the “attack” on their way to the ludus (because, as you know, Aulus was lying his ass off with that story about him acting all heroic and beating back bandits or some shit), and the whole conspiracy comes out (Batiatus intended for Sura to die in Spartacus’ arms so that Spartacus would have nothing and no one left to distract him from becoming a star gladiator), and then Spartacus kills Aulus for the role he played in Sura’s death. 
> 
> Also, I can’t remember if I’ve left a note regarding this yet or not but YES, the slave woman that Rhaskos was ordered to fuck at Roman celebration is meant to be Diona (but I’m not sure how many of the men in the ludus know her name so that’s why it’s not mentioned in the story itself).


	5. Suspicions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: SEXYTIMES (yes, that's intentionally capslocked) (^_~) ...and brief mention of sexual services provided in the past by Nasir (no details at all -- I promise)

 

Commotion.

The promise of Glaber’s imminent arrival was causing an upheaval within the house of Batiatus that even those of us sparring in the yard could sense.  Short-tempered shouts, nerve-wracking crashes, ominous silences.  The sound of a house thrown into panic.

I pitied the house slaves.

Sinister energy slithered and soaked into the sands, thickening the tension in my chest and throat as I considered the Roman we had pledged our lives to.  Quintus Lentulus Batiatus would not only dare to seek the favor of a powerful man high above his station, but orchestrate abduction and murder when his scheme for advancement failed.  He had joyously shifted blame onto his rival and even now reveled in the man’s downfall.  This Roman would do anything to gain the favor of the arriving legatus and thereby guarantee his own appointment to political office.

Upon Batiatus’ game board, every one of us were pieces to be shifted and sacrificed.  How could anyone survive such an arena?

My entire being burned with injustice: what little I knew of Batiatus’ schemes and crimes would save no one.  Even if I were given opportunity to break words with the legatus -- and even if he believed me -- it would merely mean the fall of Batiatus from favor.  A thing Ashur would go to great lengths to prevent should he learn of my intent.  Or at the very least, he would seek to avenge in the aftermath.  Through no acts of their own, Agron and Duro might be nailed to cross for _****my****_  insubordination.  After all, I had no evidence of Batiatus’ deeds, only words.  Words that would see me -- and possibly my brothers -- dead, regardless of our master’s fate.

But, suppose both Batiatus and Ashur were swiftly condemned for the death of the magistrate?  Such an outcome would mean either the removal of my brothers -- every gladiator and perhaps many of the house slaves as well -- to market for sale or a new lanista appointed in Batiatus’ place.  Given Glaber’s treatment of Spartacus and Sura, clearly the man held no reservations toward the conventions of slavery.  And in the course of all this, my life would be forfeit.

Though I did not value my own life overmuch, I could not justify the cost for so meager a return.  Thus, I heeded Spartacus’ counsel and broke no words on how the magistrate had met his end, but I pitied us gladiators for the unpleasantness that was sure to come.

Yet what could be done?

Only Spartacus and I seemed to hold fast to memory of Batiatus’ madness and saw it for the uncontrollable force it truly was.  Though I had readily offered to break words with our brothers on our dominus’ scheming, I now recognized the futility of it; such warnings would have little effect upon men of action.  The danger would seem too far removed and the implications too vague to warrant immediate concern.

From Varro’s easy smile, he had put the sight of Numerius’ denial of mercy far from thoughts.  For the sake of wife and young son, would he stand with us or against us?

Agron and Duro would take my side absent hesitation, but I could not allow them to risk their lives on a venture which yet held no chance of success.  And without the sworn swords of a great many others, we would fail.  Spartacus knew as well as I did that more lines would have to be crossed before the men would be moved to revolt.

Though every hour brought Glaber closer and further honed Batiatus’ ambition, we proceeded carefully.

At mealtimes, Spartacus and I continued to break words of little or no importance, but now we did so in the presence of a highly-alert Agron.  He watched Spartacus as a man anticipating attack.

I made no attempt to look toward Spartacus during idle moments between exercise and sparring matches, but when our paths crossed, information was swiftly and softly exchanged.  Whispers and rumors of any ills which might have deeper meaning: the escape and execution of a slave girl that Rhaskos had been commanded to lie with at celebration; the mysterious and sudden death of Oenomaus’ wife Melitta; the morose departure of a freed gladiator called Gannicus…

Upon the fourth such casual meeting, Spartacus reported, “Varro’s wife and son yet remain with her brother outside of Capua.”

“Within reach of the mountains.”  And possible escape from Rome far beyond.

The news prompted me to mention idly to those who shared the bath that night: “Should I wish to send a letter, would such a thing be possible?”

“Who would you contact?” Duro piped up, a curious smile quirking his lips.

Agron shifted beside me; I felt his keen gaze.

“Friends from my time as a house slave,” I answered lightly.  “They may wonder about my fate and will not recognize the name I now claim.”

Hamilcar spoke, “To send a letter, coin will have to cross Ashur’s sticky palm.”

“To send it, yes,” Donar agreed with a sneer.  “Delivery is another matter.  And additional charge.”

Hamilcar obligingly explained: “If the recipient is absent, the lazy fuck will seek no further.”

Donar snorted, shaking his head with suppressed anger.  “As Varro discovered.  Ashur stands no gladiator; at the sight of a little blood upon the floor, he flees.  Cockless shit.”

Rabanus leaned closer to our discussion to confide, “Leviticus has sent word more than once to Barca, but yet awaits reply.”

“Out of spite,” Donar assumed of Ashur, closing the subject.

Hamilcar pried it open: “Do not be so quick to assume that fucking Syrian’s true motivation.”  Then, with a wry smile toward me, added, “Apologies.”

“None required,” I quickly returned.  “Ashur’s moniker is well-earned, is it not?”

Donar chuckled.  “Spoken like a man who has broken words with the treacherous fuck.”

“He made attempt,” I allowed.  Then smirked at Duro: “And informed of a bet placed by a brother in favor of my victory in the arena.”

Duro grinned.  “You take no offense?”

“A show of faith is always appreciated, brother.  I only fear one day you will lose coin.”

Agron’s arm slid over my shoulders.  “Cease words and thoughts on the matter.”

“Indeed,” Hamilcar interrupted, an impish light in his dark eyes.  “Let us discuss Agron’s lack of wager.”

“You feared drawing unkind attention of the gods?” I generously proposed.

Duro barked out a laugh.  “He shits on Roman gods.  No, my brother Agron has not the spirit of a gambler.”

Surprisingly, my lover rumbled a chuckle.  His thumb smoothed over my shoulder, back and forth.  “Gamble?  To what end?  I yet possess that which I would risk all for.”  He aimed a slow, mocking punch for Duro’s jaw and pushed his smile against my brow.

His display warmed my heart as much as it shocked me speechless: additional coin would certainly aid them in attaining freedom, but Agron had never before given indication that he assumed the venture perilous.  Though coin could buy freedom, it could not guarantee against recapture and return to enslavement, or death.  A freed man stood at the mercy of fate, absent patron or protector.  So long as Duro and I stood capable of surviving the arena, Agron believed us safer here than beyond ludus walls?

If only that were true.

But perhaps he merely played the fool for the benefit of appearances: following the baths, within the relative privacy of my cell, Agron warned on a murmur, “Spartacus seeks you out during the day.”

“As I seek him.”

“And not me?”

“You yet have firm hold upon senses.  I attempt to quiet troubled mind.”

All trace of injury vanished from tone and countenance: “To what end?”

Replying with a genuine smile, I whispered, “The only end that matters.”

I then set lips to task of kissing aside the remainder of his words.

During morning training, I deliberately passed Spartacus on the well-used path to the water barrel.

“Leviticus has not received reply from any letters sent to Barca.”  Spartacus’ eyes narrowed.  I asked, “You know of this Barca?”

“I do.  And should he yet live, he would make reply.”

We shared a look.  “Ashur or Batiatus?”

“Let us consider their acts intertwined.”

A not unfounded assumption.

Assumptions, though, were rife in the ludus.  

Returning to the sands following my brief exchange with Spartacus, I glimpsed Agron catching hold of Duro’s arm, and I suffered a whap from Rabanus for my distraction.  Despite that, I did not look away as my lover hissed words to his brother and Duro promptly cast a wide-eyed gaze toward me, then at Spartacus.

Duro’s eyes narrowed.

Agron’s gaze turned toward the Thracian as well and hardened.

Fuck.  I should not have dodged Agron’s concerns the night before; hostility was the opposite of that which I desired.

“Do I bore you, little man?” Rabanus demanded loudly.

Agron and Duro caught my stare before I could redirect my attention.  “On the contrary,” I quipped.  “For suffering your instruction, I anticipate reward.”

Rabanus snorted once with mirth.  “Wise of you to seek it not from me.”

I agreed with a weak grin.

“Again!” he shouted, spear blurring through the air.  I readily allowed him to press me back, putting distance between us and my German brothers, hoping to delay confrontation.

Rabanus was no fool: “And here I had begun to think Syrians capable of some measure of courage.”

“The courage to answer blows is not the only kind!”  My spear clapped against Rabanus’ weapon in answer to challenge nonetheless.

“If this is the best you can offer, I might just as well toss your worthless ass from cliff’s edge.”

Harsh words but not undeserved.  Before their echo finished bouncing off of the ludus wall, Agron and Duro converged on Rabanus.  From the look in Agron’s eyes, his tolerance with me was exhausted; he would have answers rather than further delays.  The funeral games for Titus Calavius would be held on the morrow.

Duro eyed me -- either wariness or worry in his gaze -- and Agron inquired to my instructor, “Would you assess two against one?”

By the gods, I had neither time nor tolerance for this nonsense!

I contested, “Invite a third to fight by your side and see a fair match.”

The Sardinian’s eyes narrowed at the tension between us.  “Nasir, level these oafs in less than ten moves or see arm bound for remainder of day’s training.”

“Understood.”  I settled into first position as Agron and Duro braced themselves for attack.

I waited for the first blow.  It came in the form of words: “You and Spartacus,” Duro ground out.

“I stand alone presently,” I replied tersely.

Agron struck.  Either he hoped to capitalize on my distraction or prevent Duro from breaking further words so close to others of the Brotherhood.  It mattered not.  I tore the sword from his grasp, blocked a thrust from Duro, and smacked Agron’s shield wide before “slicing” him cleanly up the middle, knocking his jaw shut with an audible _****click!****_ of teeth.  Spinning spear in grasp, the blunted point blurred toward Duro’s unprotected throat.

He leaped back with a yelp and I pursued: strike, spin, sweep--!

And then the sound of a footstep at my back.  I ducked and rolled aside to dodge the blow that Agron, though “dead,” had aimed for my dominant shoulder.

We resumed first position: a bristling trifecta.

“Break words, brother,” Duro badgered.

“Such is my intent.”  This surprised both him and Agron.  I lunged.

We grappled again.  This time, Duro caught hold of my spear in a firm grasp.  As Agron swooped in to deliver the killing bow, I dropped, rocked back onto my shoulders, and launched Duro ass over ears: his own grip upon the spear worked to his disadvantage as I held on, my feet pressed to his belly, and sent him flying overhead to crash into Agron’s advancing form.

They landed hard with an assortment of grunts.  Agron chuckled absent humor.  Duro spat, “Goatfuck!”

I regained feet and waited for them to untangle themselves.  “Patience,” I chided, hoping they would heed deeper meaning.

Agron made a show of sweeping his dropped shield up from the sands, drawing close enough to whisper earnestly.  “Does Spartacus threaten choice?”

I blinked.

“Your words drew me.  Upon your return from summoning.  You spoke of choice.  He instructed you to halt action.  For the sake of others.”

From the look in his eyes, Agron had already guessed who those others were.  And should he name himself and his brother, his words would prove true.  However--

“You misunderstand.”  I looked to Duro.  “Do not seek quarrel with Spartacus.  It is I who has earned your ire.”

From his post some paces distant, Rabanus crossed his arms, and I would not test his forbearance.  Agron anticipated my attack, wrapped gladius’ edge around spear shaft and spun me around with intent to receive thrust from Duro’s practice sword.

Before Agron’s hastily abandoned shield finished clattering upon the ground, I leaped up, slamming my back into Agron’s chest and kicking Duro away with both feet to shield, prying them apart.

Slipping from Agron’s grasp, I dropped to the sand and rolled away, spear abandoned.  Well.  No matter.  I would retrieve it presently.

I collected Agron’s dropped shield in compensation and readied myself for attack.

They closed in.  I spun with shield’s edge set to cut them back.  Swept Duro’s feet out from under him with swift leg.  Knocked shield’s edge against Agron’s knee, stumbling him back one step.  Twisted around and swung at opposite knee.  He lunged back just enough.  I gained ground and collected my spear.

My brothers paused on the pretense of assessing my intent.  Or perhaps it was not pretense at all.  They examined me carefully, but not with an eye toward battle strategy.

“I cannot _****yet****_  break words,” I hissed with a pointed look toward Agron, “and reveal intent absent _****opportunity.”****_

There.  Finally, Agron saw something in my manner which allayed his fears.

He shook his head slowly, wonderingly.  He grinned.  “Fucking Syrian.”

Seeing himself suddenly excluded and outnumbered, Duro sputtered.  “Goatfucking--you both--!”  He huffed, rolled his eyes, and relented: “When the time comes, we will stand with you, little brother.”

“Absent forewarning?” I tested, marveling at how astute they both were… once they looked past their own stubbornness.

“Fuck the gods, Nasir!  What other purpose would brothers serve?”

Agron agreed with a laugh.  “The fucking idiot speaks truth.”  He slapped the flat of his sword against palm.  “Now I would see you to the sand, little man.”

My bemused grin tightened into a ferocious snarl.  “Don’t fucking call me that!”

I leaped, surprising Duro with my sudden charge and using the moment of his shock to land a blow upon Agron’s practice blade.  We battled on.  Rabanus never did call for either a halt or the bindings.  When I thought to look up during a brief respite, my mentor was gone.  Apparently, he had deemed my focus and effort adequate.  It was good enough to resist Agron’s attacks and tumble Duro once more to the ground.

“Fuck!” he complained, lurching to his feet with a wince.  “Are you beast or brother?”

“Can I not stand as both?”  As soon as the words left my mouth, my smile faded.

Agron lowered his sword, sensing the loss of both lust for battle and amiable spirit.  “Yes,” he answered quickly, solemnly.  “Stand as both.  We will not turn from you.”

And I was restored in an instant.  I vowed, “Nor I from you.”

_****Crack!** ** _

Midday meal.  I rested and laughed with my brothers.  I leaned against Agron’s arm and slapped Duro’s back.  I answered Donar’s jibes with sharp wit and toothy grins.  My lover traced the swell and crease of hardening muscles along my arms and shoulders.  My young brother rolled his eyes at the blatant affection until I poked him in the ribs for the purpose of testing his fitness but found much reward in his helpless giggles.

Perhaps I should have been seeking additional information on past tragedies and transgressions within the house of Batiatus, but I would claim a brief respite.  Agron and Duro needed time with their brother Nasir.  I gave it.

“Gladiators!” Doctore called following afternoon drills.  “The matches for tomorrow’s games are decided!  The execution of Magistrate Calavius’ killer -- Marcus Decius Solonius--”

Shock rippled through the yard.  Even I flinched at hearing the name -- the lie -- spoken aloud.

“--falls to Spartacus.  The deaths of his gladiators are the charge of those chosen to fight.”

Rhaskos sent a fierce grin toward Acer, who returned it with equal thirst for blood.

“On the morrow,” Doctore instructed, “you will honor the fallen magistrate with blood and death… unless the audience indicates desire otherwise.”

Everyone stood straighter as names were announced and opponents described.  It was with a profound sense of relief that I learned Agron, Duro, and Donar would stand together against three Greeks of Solonius’ ludus: Batiatus’ decision to separate my brothers delayed for one more fight.  Varro and Rhaskos would face a pair of Sardinians.  Rabanus was matched against a retiarius of note.  And I--

“Nasir!  You oppose a murmillo.  A Gaul who stands undefeated in the arena this year.”

As did I.  Yes, I was also as yet undefeated in the arena.  I would remember this.

Agron sought to remind me with four words -- “I would fight you.” -- and an afternoon spent locked in furious combat.  We fought as men who faced death.  In the end, it was Spartacus and Varro who had to step between us when we made no move to break for evening meal.

“Save a little for softer pursuits,” Spartacus advised with a wry grin.

Varro smirked.  “Unless you would have it rough.  In which case, I pity Agron.”

“Pity me either way,” Agron jested, brows wiggling and eyes twinkling.

I laughed, looped my arm around Agron’s neck and trapped his jaw in place with spear’s shaft to receive a boisterous kiss.  He smiled against my lips, but I was relentless in seizing his mouth.  Spartacus and Varro did not linger to applaud the victor of this contest.

We were left alone in the yard, whistles and jeers fading until Agron at last made attempt to nudge and waddle me closer to the hall and promise of food.  I dug my heels in.  At my show of resistance, Agron halted and I beamed.  Despite the necessity of obeying Roman command, I was no fucking Roman toy to be tossed about.  A fact Agron clearly appreciated and I greatly enjoyed taking advantage of at every opportunity.

Prying the spear from my grasp and passing it to the hovering ludus slave, a slender youth by the name of Vitus who appeared even younger than Lysandros -- had I ever been that young, that soft and helpless? -- Agron praised me: “Fuck the gods, you are determined.”

“You are a god now?” I teased.

His breath caught.  “Regardless, I would have you.”  Through a wicked grin, he muttered against my lips, “Man or god, fuck me, Nasir.”

My blood quickened.  For a moment, I was too light-headed to form words.  I cast my gaze over yard and hall and, as others were distant enough to allow for private negotiation, I dared: “Speak plainly your desires.”

Agron groaned low, his mouth descending toward mine for a frantic, lip-sucking kiss.  “You,” he pulled back far enough to rasp.  “I would feel the ache of you yet within me on the morrow.”

Ah, fuck.  “I shall see to it tonight.”

Though I hungered for a biting kiss, the press of my lips against his was gentle and warm.  An echo of our first.  He moaned and followed me to the stew pot to receive our portions.  When I spied Lysandros ferrying empty bowls to the kitchen, I scrambled up to offer assistance and make request.

My face flushed with heat at the slow curve of his lips -- truly, to what purpose could a water jug, pot of oil, and generous cut of cloth be applied with exception of the obvious? -- but he readily agreed to see to their delivery and concealment.  “Should you require a favor of equal measure from me--”  Though what that favor might be, I had no notion.  Still, it was the way of house slaves to exchange such guarantees.  “--I would see it done.”

The young man laughed and patted my shoulder playfully.  “Your skill with weapons is not the only thing that inspires us house slaves to greatness.”

“I…”

“Speak not of it.  Great passion -- _**genuine affection** **,”**  _he corrected, “cannot be limited by words.  Indeed, the attempt would be a great disservice.”

Disservice was contrary to my aims tonight.  Following baths and friendly debate and discussion with Duro, I led Agron to my secluded cell and sat him down upon pallet.  Leaned into the palm he curved against my brow and cheek.  Medicus had deemed me durable enough to be sent to the arena absent stitches in flesh; they’d been removed before breaking my fast this morning.  I was as fair of face as I could be.  Though Agron’s fingers avoided the still-forming scar, he seemed not to see it at all.  Rather, he looked past it and into me.  Seeking.

He swallowed visibly and, despite his eager smile, he was tense.  I slid into his lap, and his enjoyment of it was clear in the slow glide of his hands over my sides and the softening of his mouth.

Seeing him somewhat eased, I spoke: “I will not harm you or myself.”

His grin was sudden and giddy.  “I do not fear.”

“These shoulders do not lie.”  I squeezed the rock-hard muscles to emphasize my point.

“Anticipation.  I desire this,” he assured me.

“As do I.  Agron,” I breathed, sharing my own truth, “I have done this before.”

He frowned.  “Upon command.”

I nodded, but did not look away from his exquisite eyes.  “Now I ask you to allow my touch.”

His throat moved, torch light flickering over the shifting muscles and short, downy beard hair.  “I would have you however you like.”  The same words he’d spoken upon his return from the arena.

“Then I would have you tight around my cock,” I breathed hotly against his lips, basking in the sudden, gasping breath he drew.  “I would erase from memory all trace of Roman touch and give myself to my lover.  My choice.  The one who has shown me, again and again, that I yet possess the heart of a free man.”

“Nasir,” he breathed, lips slack and damp with slick, mindless passes of his tongue and harsh breaths.  “See it fucking done.”

My kisses nudged him back onto the mattress.  His eyes tracked my movements as I slid from the surface of the bed to fumble in the shadows of pallet and ledge beneath, drawing out the small pot of oil Lysandros had generously provided.  Agron’s lips quirked with a knowing grin that I immediately leaned in to lick.

Caressing Agron’s cheek, jaw, and neck, I assured him, “I halt at your command, but know that I desire you.  Slowly, thoroughly.”

His jaw clenched.  His fingers sifted into the hair at the nape of my neck.  “I would have you wild.”

“You will.  Patience will not be unrewarded.”

He nodded and I lowered my mouth to his chest.  I tasted him in silence, reading his reactions in the trembling and tensing of fingers, yet he never grabbed me.  His spine rolled and he inhaled sharply, deeply, but no touch from his hands held the strength to bruise.

Fuck the gods.  This man was a dream.  So gentle with me.  So beautifully splayed open beneath my mouth and hands.  Every stroke invigorated him even as it leveled him.  Like our first night when wine-blurred kisses had given me the courage to offer pleasure, he offered himself to my hands.  I would reward such faith with warm, oiled fingers upon flushed skin.

His body shifted and swelled against my touch, not simply his cock, but also chest and thighs -- his very skin -- seemed to strain toward sensation.  Warmth.  Caresses.  I leaned over him and he held me steady as I learned him one leisurely stroke at a time.

“Nasir,” he huffed, more movement of lips than actual sound, “I will finish…”

“Patience,” I implored, nudging one leg up to bend at the knee.  I settled my side against his torso, tonguing his lush mouth as I dared more than tease rippling reaction upon the surface of his form.  Drawing tongue forth and sealing lips around it, I sucked.  Between strong thighs, a single digit pressed forward, chasing his inner heat.  Ah, fuck.  Such heat.

He gasped hard, body jerking with surprise, and I paused, loving his face with gentle fingertips and his hair with soft tugs.  His shuddering eyelids and shivering lips, jaw and ear, neck and chin, nose and brow -- all received unvoiced whispers from my lips until he rolled his hips and took more of me.

Ah, gods.  Yes.  I would give him more.

I sat up, traced his trembling eyelashes with pad of thumb, breathed his name, eased out in a dragging slide and then pressed twin explorers between his thighs.  He burned against my skin, his hot clasp inescapable.

“Ah…” he breathed, throat working.  “Fuck.”

“Yes, Agron,” I vowed, licking the rushing line of his pulse.  My breath stuttered.  “We shall.  Presently.”

My palm slid over his gasping mouth to capture the oncoming cry as I curled into his heat and sought his pleasure.  The moment I discovered it, his entire form stiffened and arched.  His eyes went wide with shock and then hazy and devoted as he herded me closer.  Our chests brushed and his hips rolled as I petted him deep, deep, deep.

A moan slipped out through his nose and I rewarded him with a sucking kiss upon ear.  “Patience,” I coached him.

Teeth gritted, he shook his head, restless-needy-urgent and the heat of a thousand suns shot through me.  An inferno flying swift as a loosened arrow.  Spiraling under skin through every vein.

As his body had readily accepted two invaders, I now pulled back and dared three, lapping at his slack lips, delving between his thighs for a final stretch.  Long arms wrapped around me, urging me closer, closer, closer.  Against his belly, a puddle of musk smeared across taut skin.  I crouched back and dipped the very tip of tongue in his essence, indulging in a taste.

He grasped my free hand, twining our fingers and bringing them to his lips, sucking on the tips with listless, sloppy abandon.  He suddenly thrust against my hand, hard enough to press taut balls to fluttering wrist, and I glanced up in time to catch sight of reflexive grimace.

Petting his cheek, I stroked him gentle and deep, a reminder of the pleasures to be had.  His spine twisted and rolled, muscles easing, and I pushed-thrust-stretched him.  Withdrawing on a slow twist had him short of breath and arching into me, chasing after my retreat.

His thighs tensed, rocked further open.  Begging in silence.  A hand fell to my hip and groped toward subligaria, tearing at the fabric until I sat up and removed it.  Sighing with relief just as Agron’s alternately torch-golden and shadow-gray eyes focused upon the sight of my desire.  His flush darkened, gaze falling mindless with lust.

Agron’s own hands gathered upon himself, grasping cock and lifting balls away.  His eyes burning with a sleek challenge.  Neck arched back, daring me to set cock to purpose.

Ah fuck.  Yes.

Breath abandoned me.  My lungs -- broken, useless things pressing out against ribs.  My entire being _**howled**_ for him.  I let him see it in my eyes, in the clench of jaw and the flare of nostrils.  Coating myself with oil nearly saw me spent -- a novice’s reaction I had long abandoned but fuck--the sight of him, offering, and the scent of him, lush-sweaty-Agron, and--fuck everything.  I took pause, focused upon the breaths he drew and I mimicked.  One deep breath.  Another.  A third.  And only then did I dare a soft press of blunt force to puckered flesh.

I halted.  Waited.

Agron’s long, powerful body undulated, deepening our connection and I thrust steadily, smoothly, with a teeth-gritted and jaw-achingly lazy arch of my spine.  By the gods, this act had never felt so… had never been so…  Fuck.  Fuck fuck fuck.  My entire life until now had been a pale shadow of truth.

My lips moved in silence: “Agron.”

He reached for my face and my hands pressed up against the back of each massive thigh, asking for more of his trust, taking more of his heat, giving all of me into the cradle of his body.   _ **Have me,**_  I prayed, sliding the last inch into his steaming, sizzling core.

Ahh… _****fuck.****_

“Breathe,” I commanded us both on a whisper, rubbing his sweat-misted chest.

He did and my hips shifted gently.  I marveled, disbelieving, at the hot, tight slide.  Gasping breaths.  His eyes rolling back and neck cording.  His very senses scattering.  A rhythm, shallow and coaxing, teaching his body that mine meant his no harm, that I would give as well as take if he but allowed it.

“Fuck,” he sighed, smoothing palms down my back in an endless, greedy grope, and I complied with his request, rolling hips at a sure, slow pace that had him panting within moments.

Long legs wrapped around my torso.  A very well-received gesture of trust and need, but I pulled back, reaching between us to apply more oil along my length before I sank back into him in a long stroke.  He bit his lip, watching me from beneath his lashes, neck offered and fingers rubbing through locks of hair against my scalp.  I arched over him, kissing his chest, nipping, licking, tonguing as I gave him time and myself leave to search for that specific angle that would--

He gasped; body locked-and-lurched around mine.

I paused.  Looked up through my brows.

“Yes?” I checked, returning to that angle-pressure-depth.

His nod was frantic and I revisited the motion a third time--

“Na-Nasir!” he whined breathless, eyes screwed shut and lips slack.

I curled myself into him, urging his legs tighter against my skin, and permitted instinct to take hold.  Hips surged forward, forward, forward, my mind fading as the wildness crested.

 _ ** **Eyes open,****_  I requested with the soft pass of fingertips over brow and eyelids.  His lashes fluttered and his eyes -- beautiful in all light and mood but exquisite now with overwhelming desire -- gazed into mine.  I watched him watching me.  Watching our bodies rocking together.

 _ ** **Take this, take me,****_  I implored in silence, terrified that my heart might just explode within chest if denied sight of his awestruck gaze.

I burned to have him like this all night: make him delirious with want, fuck him to exhaustion, and then take rest while buried inside of him before awakening us both to another interlude of breathless pleasure.  But his body’s awkward reactions had made it clear that Agron was not a man who practiced fucking regularly -- and all evidence indicated he had abstained since our first meeting.  At the very least.

I would not leave him overly sore.  Not when he was to set foot upon the sands of the arena tomorrow.

My hand drifted over his length.  Fingertips scooped up his excitement and massaged him -- hot, wet, throbbing, hard -- until slippery sounds accompanied each thrust into tight grasp.

Tight.  Gods, he was so tight around me.  Growing tighter.  Pulling and begging me deeper.

“Yes,” I mouthed, tugging on his hair and meeting his delirious gaze.  “Agron.  Take your pleasure.”

His hands suddenly smoothed down to my ass and my hips obeyed, quick-slick-relentless, as he clenched-swelled-stole the breath from my lungs.  The thrumming flesh in my grasp leaped, jerked, spilled and spurted.

His body clamped and claimed my cock, obliterated every thought, every sensation except for the feel of him.  White-hot, searing, tingling thrill racing from scalp and down the length of my spine until fuck--Agron-- _ ** **fuck****_ \--Agron-Agron-Agron!

Eyes open, vision absent.

Mouth agape, lungs squeezed shut.

Sensation immolating, thoughts destroyed.

Awareness returned in waves and I realized I was yet rolling my hips in shallow, cresting motions, easing us both, slick-and-soft, through the harsh-sharp-timeless rush of release.  Agron’s hips flowed with mine, our gazes still locked.  At some point, he had once again intertwined our fingers and I clutched him tightly, anchored.  Our panting breaths and the flicker-whoosh of torch light: sounds to soothe my racing heart as my very being drifted deeper into his body, soaking through skin and muscle.  Pressing our joined hands to his face, petting his brow, I placed soft kisses upon his chest.

He opened his mouth, drew breath, but no sound emerged.

“Absent words,” I observed, tone quiet and uneven.  Low.  “Have I disappointed?”

He caught my jaw in both hands.  Gaped at me wide-eyed.  The rapid shaking of his head drew a smile of relief from me.  His belly scrunched beneath the cooling splash of his release and he tugged my face closer.  To answer his call, I was first required to withdraw from his body, easing hips back and guiding trembling thighs to the mattress.  Sliding, smearing my belly against his, I met his lips and was gifted messy, aimless, enthusiastically sticky kisses.

This man.  Ah, gods.  I would have him until the end of my days.

To ensure he lasted as long, he would require care.  I would give it.

I reached for the water jug, sniffed and tasted it myself before offering the contents to him.  We drank.  Kissed again.  My hands pressed him softly back onto the bed.  Collecting the cut cloth, I dampened it and cleansed his sweaty, slippery skin.  When I shifted to attend the mess between his thighs, he reached for my wrist.

“I would keep you there,” he whispered.

There.  Inside of him.  Ah, fuck.  I would have it, except I knew well the irritation it would soon cause.  “Some will remain,” I promised, “and you will wake sore with memory.”

His skin flashed with goose bumps.  Fingers loosened grasp and I wiped him clean before quickly scrubbing the sweat and seed and oil from my own skin.  He gathered me flush against him and I slid both hands beneath his skull to cradle him for every nuzzle and kiss.  His warmth, his musk, his soothing hands and long legs.  Ah, gods.  Did I dare imagine a day when we might share a wide bed in a room made of four solid walls?

No, I did not dare.  I claimed his kisses, nuzzled against his touch, and counted his heartbeats instead.  This moment was guaranteed.  The future was not.

The sound of approaching footsteps -- the scrape of soles and clank of armor -- roused me and I regretfully assembled our subligaria.  The guard turned down our corridor just as I levered Agron upright, guiding him -- all loose joints and dopey smile -- out of my cell and toward his.  There was no time for a final kiss; my thumb brushed across his bottom lip and then I was retreating to my bed, closing the grate behind me and listening to lock grind against key.

I leaned back against the wall, boneless and exhausted, overwhelmed and energized.

I had fucked before.  I had been given thorough instruction, and my cock had been used for the pleasure of another for some years.  But tonight… that had not been fucking.

The act to which I had become accustomed, empty of affection and brimming with disgust, was a thing separate and far removed from what Agron and I had shared.  So much emotion and passion, need and desire, tenderness and trust, heat and--and--and…  I had no neat, poetic words to name it.

I supposed that meant it was genuine.  If it defied Roman words, then it must be.

My arms felt empty and my skin barren with Agron absent from my embrace.  My body knew him, welcomed him, wanted him in all ways.  That, in and of itself, was a miracle; if I could not grasp his form with my hands, then I would cling to that.  And also to the hope of rejoining our flesh and revisiting that blissful moment of pure life-and-living that I had only ever felt with him.

Hope.  A warrior from lands east of the Rhine had taught me to hope.  Not for a quick death, but for a little more life.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, so, I shall leave it up to you, dear reader, if (1) it’s been a really long time for Agron, (2) Nasir is his best ever, or (3) this is Agron’s first time bottoming. The fact that this is happening the night before he and Nasir have to fight separately in the arena might be a contributing factor to his tension as well -- that’s also at your discretion.
> 
> As for sexytimes happening in the ludus, well, yes, that seems awfully risky and awkward and un-sexy, but I will defend it. From Nasir’s perspective, he’s never had much in the way of privacy or the expectation of it. From Agron’s point of view, it’s possible he grew up in a house without separate rooms meant for privacy. (I’m thinking of descriptions of homes and forts from Norse-era northern Europe and, basically, I think the argument can be made that separate rooms were not used for privacy but for temperature control; I mean, the cellar room was for keeping things cool, the kitchen was for cooking, and the common room was either warmed or cooled depending on the season.)


	6. The Funeral Games

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: violence and gore, vague reference to unsavory Roman attention 
> 
> I’ve changed the order of events in the funeral games: Solonius’ execution still takes place in the afternoon, but Crixus’ match is afterwards (instead of beforehand). I don’t want you to be confused.
> 
> Also, I’m ignoring the reality that gladiators were most likely kept in locked cells before and after their matches. In Capua, all the dudes from the same ludus chill out together in a tunnel that looks out upon the sands.

 

Brothers.

We three rose together with the arrival of the guard before dawn, a routine which was familiar.  Duro yawned and bit down on a smirk at the motion of my hand as it glided down the center of his brother’s back absent subtlety.  I disregarded his silent teasing, cupping Agron’s jaw and asking with my gaze if he suffered.

His bright smile and eager kiss were answer enough.

Donning our ceremonial clothing and armor, we clamored into the wagon cart.  Eight of us pressed together shoulder-to-shoulder.  More would join our group at the arena before the matches began.  Those making the earliest trip to Capua stood as those with lowest seniority: Donar, Hamilcar, Tychos, Varro, Sophus.  As I was wedged between Duro and Agron, I offered no complaint.

As in my previous visit to the arena, time dragged the sun along the sky like a recruit pulling a wooden beam across sand.  The Gauls -- Crixus, Mannus, Rhaskos, Acer, Liscus -- were the next to set foot in our pen with Fortis, Peirastes, and Plenus, grumbling almost as loudly as their empty bellies.  Spartacus and ludus veterans -- Leviticus, Litaviccus, Lydon, Pollux, Ortius, Fulco, Rabanus -- arrived last and arena guards followed in their wake, escorting kitchen slaves who bore pots of food and bowls.

I bit back a sigh at the unappetizing sight of my own portion, wistfully recalling a time when I could identify with ease the food upon my platter.  Now, I would rather not know the manner of ingredients that filled my bowl.  I had heard that gladiators of the Roman capital enjoyed feasts at the Colosseum.  Here, in Capua, the fare was far more humble.

There were not enough seats upon the benches for all, so we took our meals and stood near the grate, watching workers make preparations for the crowd.

“It tastes of piss,” Duro grumbled, wincing through a bite.

Agron gave his brother a long look, one meant to waken a slow mind.  I could nearly hear Agron’s snide drawl: _****If it tastes of piss, then it stands to reason someone has pissed in it, does it not?****_

Duro grimaced, perhaps hearing the same unspoken words that I did.  “Ugh.”

With a snort, I advised, “Turn thoughts from unpleasantness.”  Elbowing his arm as he twirled the spoon aimlessly -- clearly debating whether or not to dare another bite -- I said, “Tell me of the games you play for sport in Germania.”

This subject was readily grasped by not only Duro and Agron but Donar as well.  I learned of their love for wrestling as well as axes, which were more plentiful than swords, so there was much sport to be had with those in hand: combat, throwing, and even juggling.

“And that stands how Agron acquired wound!” Duro told, pointing gleefully to the scar upon his brother’s chest, and then Duro was dodging and batting away his brother’s hands as Agron struggled to clamp his mouth closed.  “Juggling -- dull fucking ax -- father would have popped your head off had you not already nearly cleaved own chest.  Stupid fuck.”

“I would not--”  Finally wrangling Duro into a choke-hold, Agron smirked with satisfaction.  “--have come to injury if a little shit had not shadowed my steps into the wood and startled me.”

Duro growled and twisted free.  “Always blaming another for poor performance.”  In a loud whisper that easily eked out from behind concealing hand, he confided to Donar, “Is it any wonder Nasir does the fucking?”

Donar roared with laughter, turning heads from the tunnel benches.

I gawped at Agron who appeared torn between murdering Duro and going mad from laughter.  I calmly observed: “Our goatfuck of a brother never learns lesson.”

With a snort-huff-chuckle, Agron shook his head.  “He truly doesn’t.”

“Let us hope he has learned how to keep fucking feet under him,” I sniped, the words vanishing Duro’s obnoxious grin.

“A thing he ought to hope for,” Agron agreed darkly, crossing arms over chest, “lest he face consequences of further instruction on the matter.”

“I will maintain footing.  Cease your nagging, you overbearing fucks,” Duro complained with a pout.

I grinned, rather pleased with finding myself included with Agron as target of insult.  Any indication that a former house slave stood equal to a gladiator was one I welcomed.

The rustling, shuffling steps, stomps, and murmurings of humanity gained in volume as the arena seats filled with spectators.  Bread was tossed into greedy hands by arena soldiers.  Their usual antics of claiming a vicious bite for themselves before hurling the spoiled loaf into the crowd was absent today.  Perhaps due to the death of the magistrate standing as the occasion for today’s games.

A parade was followed by a troupe of gymnasts.  Music and dance.  A reenactment of some local drama from long ago.  By far, the tamest show I had ever seen in the arena.  But as soon as the actors departed the sands, condemned criminals were led out in chains and the crowd roared with approval.

As expected, the lack of time for preparation saw only one event featuring wild animals.  Boars were set loose upon those found guilty of thievery.  Frenzied squeals and agonized shrieks-and-screams churned the audience into hysteria for more blood.

The call was answered: Liscus was the first of our ludus to set foot upon the sands, sword in hand, to deliver the sentence of death to slaves who had dared to defy their masters or attempt escape.  Duro and Agron turned away from the sight.  I did not.

“For what purpose do you watch, little man?” Donar wondered, clearly perplexed that a former house slave would desire to witness the suffering of his kind.

“Someone must,” I replied quietly as a woman’s scream faded into a gurgle of blood.  “Someone who understands the desperation that drove them to accused acts…”  I nodded, resolute.  Swallowed back my rage.  “Someone must stand witness.”

A hand on my bare, unarmored shoulder: Agron.  I did not look away from the youth -- a boy younger than me -- who was next put to death with a single blade thrust at the base of neck.  I did not glance over my shoulder to see if Agron watched.  He accepted that I chose to, and it was enough.

“Spartacus!” shouted the guard, and the Champion of Capua stood.  As he made himself ready for the task of dispatching Solonius to the afterlife, Liscus gloried in the roar of the Romans, standing in blood spilled from fellow slaves who had dared to believe themselves worthy of better treatment than their masters had bestowed.

My mouth flooded with warm saliva and it was all I could do not to spit upon the fucking Gaul when he returned -- blood-splattered -- and slumped down upon bench.  Yet when I looked closer, I saw his grin did not reach his eyes.

He sensed my gaze and looked up.  My jaw clenched.

“You bore witness, little man?” Liscus called.

I nodded.  “Witness, yes.  Amusement, no.”

He tilted his head in agreement.  “May the poor fucks find some measure of joy in the afterlife.”

Turning back to the grate, I wondered if perhaps when Liscus had lifted his bloody blade to the sound of applause, he had been making attempt to guide those tortured spirits to the path beyond.  Showing them a way free of mockery and hate and laughter, speeding their steps.

I, too, would lift bloodied blade with that intent.

When Solonius took to the sands, I resumed my vigil.  This man who stood guilty of drawing Batiatus’ rage, this man who had fallen to well-laid trap that my own hands had helped build--perhaps Solonius had committed other crimes.  Perhaps he deserved death.  Perhaps he even deserved vicious trickery and deceit.  But I would watch.  I would see what consequence my obedience, however unwitting or coerced, had wrought.

As with all things within the arena, the execution was a celebration of brutality and blood.  Skin slashed open and innards drawn out.  A man reduced to his basest parts for the sake of amusement.

We all stood more than this.  Even Liscus.  None of us were mere swords-in-hand absent heart.  Perhaps Crixus was fortunate to find satisfaction in the roar of the crowd and the glory of victory.  A shallow thrill, but one that undoubtedly aided in survival.

The sands were cleared during midday meal, which was twice as foul as our morning portions.  Duro gagged; I did not doubt that the arena soldiers had pissed in it this time.  

When the Germans were called to prepare for their match, I smacked Duro’s cheeks playfully and tweaked Agron’s chin.  “I would celebrate your victory.  See it done.”

Donar gave me a cheeky salute and I punched his shoulder.  Agron grinned at me until he turned the corner and disappeared into the tunnels.  No one attempted to distract or distance me from the grate and view of arena sands.  A presence at my left -- Spartacus.  Hamilcar and Varro stood at my right.  A fourth man -- some sense identified him as Rabanus -- watched over my shoulder as the gates opened.  Three Germans from the house of Batiatus emerged to face three Greeks from Solonius’ ludus.

They presented themselves before the editor for introductions and fanfare.  The words fell as nonsensical sounds upon my ears.  I waited for one direction, tensed for it…

“Begin!”

Three things became immediately clear:

Donar fought for the gleeful sake of victory.

Duro fought with summoned courage and focused determination.

Agron fought as a beast unleashed.  Mindless.  Thirsting for blood.  He fought as if every offense he had ever suffered could be placed on the shoulders of his single opponent.  He was ruthless in his advance, reckless in his attacks, heedless of near misses that could easily have been fatal blows.  He _****avenged.****_

The Romans adored him.  They roared and surged and flinched with every motion of his sword.

Duro and Donar faded into the background.  Donar paced himself easily, experience and strength seeing him through with confidence.  Duro, however, was distracted by his brother’s roar.  He flinched away, cast gaze toward Agron -- who was wearing down the Greek with incessant attacks -- and a blow from mace crashed into Duro’s shield, rolling him into the sand.

“Gain fucking feet, Duro!” I bellowed.  Perhaps he heard me.  Perhaps the sound of a friendly voice was what pulled him toward our grate rather than the push from attacker.  As he drew closer, my instructions grew louder:

“Shield!”

“Strike to knees!”

“Roll, you fuck!”

“Tangle his feet!”

At last, Duro’s opponent tumbled to the sand and my brother stood.  I would not have his commitment to purpose shaken again.  “Send the shit to the afterlife!”

The Greek gained feet, mace blurred through the air.

_**Bang!** _

The Greek jerked back, but the mace was caught between edge of both Duro’s sword and shield.  With a mighty wrench of his torso, Duro yanked the weapon free, sending it flying toward the grate.  The crash of metal and the trembling bars did nothing to distract my gaze as Duro’s elbow crashed into the Greek’s throat.

Shields clashed.

Gladius arched-slashed--!

The spray of blood from Duro’s blade.

A kick to knee and Solonius’ man was crouching in the sand.

Duro spun -- shield’s edge to opponent’s head.

The Greek upon his back.

I spared a glance across the arena.  Donar delivered the killing blow with a roar and swing of ax.

Hit after hit from Agron’s sword now saw his opponent sway on his feet, delirious from pain and loss of blood.

A glimmer of steel in the sunlight brought my gaze back to Duro.  The Greek had drawn a short blade from his belt, the motion concealed behind shield.  Duro lunged to kick open his opponent’s guard.

“Halt advance!” I screamed.

Too late.

The shield swung aside and the dagger shot out, carving a swath of red along the inside of Duro’s thigh.

But Duro did not fall or falter.  Without hesitation, he drove his blade into the Greek’s throat, releasing a geyser of blood.

The crowd screamed in ecstasy.

“Duro, you fucking moron!  Donar!  DONAR!”

The older German looked over and I gestured frantically to Duro who had foolishly raised his arms in victory even as he pitched forward slightly, blood pulsing down his leg.

I could not hear Donar’s reply -- the man was too far distant and the crowd too loud -- but he shouted at Agron who promptly shoved his opponent’s shakily held shield aside and tossed his own to the sand.  Sword in a two-handed grip, he lunged upward in an arching swing, separating head from body.

Blood.

Twitching limbs.

I barely saw the remains of Agron’s opponent tumble to the ground.  I was watching Duro.  Watching him sway dangerously.  Breathing only when Donar caught him around the waist and under the arm.  The embrace could have been taken for one of celebration if not for the blood still spurting from Duro’s leg.  Agron raced over to grab onto his brother’s other arm and the three of them lifted arms toward the sky as they staggered from the arena and disappeared into the tunnel.

Twisting past the bodies who had gathered at the grate, I sprinted for the gloom of the arena passageway and drew up short only when a pair of soldiers barred my path.  I held up my hands even as I strained to see past their bulk.  Where was Agron?

Fuck.  Fuck fuck fuck.  Duro, you stupid fuck!

Words.  Someone was speaking-ordering-commanding.

A hand curled tightly around my arm.  I struggled but the fingers did not relent.

A blow across my cheek.  I gasped.

“--absent fucking sense!”

I knew this growl.  Blinking, I focused on Crixus’ scowl.

“Sit,” the Gaul ordered.  “Arena medicus tends to the pup.”

Oh.

Well.

I nodded.  Crixus shoved me toward an empty space on nearby bench.  Lydon’s grasp guided me there.  No one spoke.  With every breath, my senses returned to me; Tiberius’ steady hands pulling me from the thrashing numbness of blind panic.

My jaw clenched; my hands shook; my knees bounced: I waited to hear news of Duro’s fate.  

Donar returned dragging Agron -- stumbling, struggling, shoving between the soldiers.  I launched from my assigned seat to grab Agron’s face, to shoulder the crazed look in his unfocused eyes and smooth the snarl from his lips.

The instant my hands made contact with his sweaty, dusty, gore-splashed skin, he was crushing me in his arms.  I could barely catch my breath enough to demand of Donar, who might just possess enough sense to prove coherent: “What of Duro?”

“With arena medicus.”  Donar’s expression was grave but his tone was not absent hope.  “He requires stitches.  We were not permitted to assist.  Doctore remains with him.”

“Then we must wait.”  I pried Agron’s face from my shoulder and forced him to meet my gaze.  “We must wait--”  He flinched, attention skittering toward the guards and I shook him hard.  “--and calm ourselves!  Be strong for your brother!”

“I would fight to--”

“You will stay your hands!” I hissed.  “Lest you find yourself locked in the holding pens.”

He shifted as if to toss me aside and charge the guards.

I slapped him.

He shoved back -- my back crashing against the wall -- breath forced from lungs.

I braced an arm over his throat.  Grabbed his hair.  “Agron!”

He froze.

“Agron,” I repeated, quieter.

He drew a shaky breath.

“Agron…” I whispered, my arms winding around him and pulling him close.  His big body trembled.

With a glance toward the guards, I noted with relief that they had ventured no closer.  They were poised to draw weapons, but Donar was speaking to them in a low voice, buying time.  I nodded once, managing a reassuring smile: there was no cause for alarm.

I turned my gaze upward to the shadowed ceiling and listened as Pollux was called.  Against intent, I found myself meeting the man’s gaze as he passed and what I saw in his eyes shocked me: sympathy, understanding, respect.

I had expected derision and disgust.  I should not have: these men had all suffered grief.  Their very presence in this arena proved they had all lost someone, either to death upon battlefield or hopelessly separated by Rome from distant homeland.  With the exception of Varro, but even his sacrifice was no small thing.

Agron was too large for me to maneuver.  Spartacus eventually came to lend an arm and shoulder to task.  We pushed him down upon the bench.  He curled forward, head bowed and elbows braced upon knees.  I quickly lowered myself beside him, perching at an angle to allow my arm over his hunched shoulders and hand clasped in both of his.  My torso shielded him from view of the soldiers at tunnel’s juncture.

Six matches passed.  I heard but could watch none of them.  I sat with Agron, stroking his back, waiting for word.  It was Crixus who ended our vigil.

“The Ferryman sends our pup back,” the Gaul rasped, tone oddly absent sneer.  “Even he won’t spare effort for you.”

A weak chuckle -- familiar though lacking its usual flair -- Duro.  Pale and drooping over Doctore’s arm, leaning away from the man’s support as if trying to walk on his own two feet, the moronic shit.

Agron lunged over me to reach him, scooping his brother close in a bone-crushing embrace.  I begged for room upon the nearest bench and, when the men graciously moved down, I tugged on Agron’s shoulder.  “Duro will live so long as you do not squeeze the life from him.  Here, rest, brother.”

Duro wilted from his brother’s arms and onto the bench.  “Fuck the gods.”

I glanced at his bandaged leg.  No blood showed through the wrappings which appeared surprisingly clean given the filth of the arena’s interior.

A strong grip upon shoulder urged me back.  Doctore pressed a jug of water into my grasp and passed a portion of bread to Duro.  “Eat, drink, rest.”

When Doctore withdrew to report to Dominus, Agron spat, “What fucking happened?”

Duro’s mouth was full and yet he sighed, shrugged, dismissed the entire incident from mind.

“I had clear view,” I volunteered quietly.  “Opponent concealed drawn dagger and waited for you to make approach.  A dishonorable trick--”  One that the Veteran had shown me.  “--meant to see you to the afterlife with him.”

“Apologies,” Duro muttered, a flicker of humor twitching at his lips, “for not halting on your command.”

Ah, so he had heard my warning.

Donar leaned down into Duro’s face.  “You will not fucking start.  Your brother already minds Nasir’s orders like a well-heeled dog.  You follow suit and the whole ludus will think me next.”

“But Donar, were you not the first to bow to my wit?”

The man stuck a finger in my smiling face and snarled, “Bow?  You have not yet seen the top of my head or back of neck, little Syrian.”

“As I have seen your ass poking up from the sand, again and again, following each tumble taken?”

“Set eyes upon Agron’s ass and leave mine be.”  The German smirked.  “Surely there’s enough to satisfy a little man like you.”

The fuck.  How had he gained advantage?  My lips curled.  “You have learned to use wit at last.  And offer noble tribute to instructor.”

“Pompous little fuck.”

“Stubborn shit sack.”

Duro laughed.  Agron grinned.  My aim was met: the spirits of both my brothers had lightened.  Even Donar seemed more relaxed in the wake of our banter.  He cared greatly for both young Germans, though he would never admit to sentiment.

Peirastes and Fulco were called.  I remained where I stood, hovering at Agron’s shoulder, providing a barrier behind which the brothers could take rest.  From corner of eye, I caught the subtle, rhythmic motion of flexing muscle beneath skin as Agron petted his brother’s brow.  Duro dozed, head pillowed upon Agron’s leg.

Roaring cheers and screams.  Battle cries.  The clash of metal and thud of bodies striking sand.

Peirastes and Fulco returned with minor injuries -- mere scratches that would soon scab over and heal within the week.

“Crixus!”

My head jerked up as the Gaul stood to prepare.  Three matches remained.  I would follow Crixus and honor my lanista, my patron, and the fallen magistrate.  Honor.  A Roman word of little worth.  I would not offer up my life in its pursuit.

I had brothers to live for.

Beneath my palm, Agron’s back rose and fell with each subtle breath: proof of trust.

His warmth and mine mingling between our skin: proof of life.

His fingers tangling in greaves’ fabric at back of my knee and his quick smile in response to my questioning gaze: proof of bond.

I would thank the gods with every breath for seeing our paths cross… if I believed they gave fucking shit.  I did not -- could not -- believe for one moment that I had met my German brothers for our benefit.  It was far more likely that our alliance was meant to torment another whose trespasses the gods sought to answer.

The Gauls crowded at the grate to watch the match.  I followed its progress by sound alone: Crixus’ roar; his opponent’s shouted insults; the clamor of the audience.

A particularly enthusiastic ovation rocked the arena and Duro smirked tiredly.  “Do you suppose the fucking Gaul dropped subligaria?”

I snorted.  “Such an underwhelming sight would not inspire me to cheer,” I muttered.

Duro wheezed a laugh and I allowed Agron to tug me down onto his knee.  He chuckled a kiss against my temple.

“I will not ask what manner of cock would summon enthusiasm,” Duro blithely announced.

I grinned, reaching out to clasp his hand.  “And you will sleep all the better for it, believing yours to be of superior form.”

Duro squawked in affront.  Agron bellowed a laugh into my shoulder.  Beyond the grate, the crowd called for blood.

Agron observed, “A vicious attack.”

“We stand in the arena.”

No one enjoyed the reminder; the jest left to waste.

Agron’s hand slid over my back -- skin, straps, and buckles.  His trimmed whiskers burred heat against my bare jaw.  Medicus had made genuine effort to enhance my lover’s features for his appearance in the arena and I appreciated the result even as I feared the attention it might have drawn when he had removed helmet to receive introductory address from pulvinus.

“Open hands.  Release fear.  Grasp weapon,” he murmured and I leaned back to look into his eyes, his expression determined and proud.  “You prove more fierce than any man I know.”

“A few mock battles and blows from blunted blades,” I scoffed playfully.  “I shall give you satisfactory demonstration to justify belief.”

“See it done.”

Crixus returned.  The body of his slain opponent was cleared from the sands with ceremony: the man had fought well and his years of experience warranted some measure of respect for his fall despite his association with the condemned Solonius.

With a sigh, I released Duro’s hand and pushed myself from Agron’s loose embrace.  I stood.  Stretched.  Imagined the spear in my grasp and moved through the drills Rabanus had taught.  I did likewise with an invisible gladius and the lessons given me from Doctore.

“Nasir!”

I spun around at the summons.  Smiled for Agron.  Winked to Duro.  And set foot to path.  I would not offer farewells.  None were needed as I would return presently.

“The little Syrian fuck yet lives,” one of the soldiers muttered.  The same dissatisfied shit who had harassed me a week previous.

 _ ** **I trust coin has been more wisely wagered today?****  _ The words pressed against my throat, but I gritted my teeth.  There were many wounds that could be inflicted and easily concealed beneath armor.  I would not provoke the fucks to assault.

I gathered my weapons in silence.  Donned helmet.  Collected shield.  Thought of my brothers.  No doubt Agron was at the grate now, shoving aside whoever lingered regardless of rank.  Duro, the stubborn little puke, was probably hobbling beside my lover.  Perhaps Rabanus might also watch.  Out of curiosity.  Varro, Donar, Spartacus perhaps.  Perhaps.

How fortunate I had been to befriend so many fierce warriors, men less likely to fall.  How fortunate that Agron, Duro, and Donar had taken to the sands together.

How difficult it would be for them to watch me face an opponent alone, still short on experience and lacking comrades.

Yet, this match was some supposed honor bestowed by Numerius to compensate for mistreatment.  What distressed me was that Romans clearly believed their own convoluted logic.  How odd: I had accepted their ways once, but after listening to Duro’s complaints and receiving Agron’s words of baffled frustration, Roman thinking now smudged and blurred, nearly insensible.

The taunts of the soldiers crashed upon my ears, but Tiberius turned the words away.  I approached the gate.  The sound of the crowd was a listless cacophony.  I waited for Batiatus to make the introductions.

He stood.  He lifted his arms to draw attention.  He pontificated.

And still, I waited… waited… _****waited…****_

“The Syrian Nasir!”

The gates swung open and I charged out onto the sands, spear held high in salute.  If the fucking Romans desired a show, I would give them one.  I loped down the center of the arena, whipping my spear with unnecessary fanfare.  Drawing near the pulvinus, I planted shaft to sand, vaulted and spun, landed neatly with a bow.  Removed helmet with flourish.

Whatever sounds of mockery had welcomed my arrival were changed to either cheers of anticipation or delighted laughter.  Perhaps that made me memorable.

A necessary evil, a hope to distract the attention of admirers from Agron.  Foolishness, really.  What gaze that looked favorably upon a man such as my lover would be swayed by me?

None.

As Batiatus gestured to the opposite end of the arena, I scanned the pulvinus absently.  There was Numerius, of course, seated beside his mother, her body slave also in attendance.  Lucretia and her body slave -- Naevia, I had heard her called.  Batiatus’ body slave Santos and, surprisingly, Lysandros as well.  He stood at the service of Ilithyia and an unremarkable Roman beside her, a deceptively mundane creature -- a mere sparrow of a man in legatus’ armor: Glaber.

He and his men had arrived in the city.

I drew a breath, noting that the sunlight was steadily gaining weight, moving from blindingly pale to rich gold.  Sunset approached.

An omen.

Perhaps.

Batiatus bellowed, “I give you murmillo… Gordianus!”

I stiffened with recognition.  Gordianus.  I had seen this man’s first fight more than five years ago when I had last accompanied Varro to the games.

Five years this man had been a gladiator and I a mere month.  If there stood a greater insult to such an esteemed veteran of the sands, I could not imagine it.  I wondered if Doctore had known, wondered if he had told me only enough to set me to purpose.

Well.  It was too late to make complaint now.

Guiding my helmet in place, I faced the Gaul, set mind to purpose, and readied body.

The man stood resolute yet resigned.  I could only guess what his gaze would reveal if I possessed the ability to see beneath metal helmet and mask.

He moved into position.

The calls and jeers of the crowd faded.  The speeding rhythm of my heartbeat thundered in my ears.  Breath quickened, echoed steadily against sweat-smeared metal.

And then a single word punctured the moment and cut the strings that held us fast:

“Begin!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, so, did you notice Agron looking, um, sexier than usual in Blood and Sand, Episode 13? Like, in the yard while all the gladiators are eating (while Glaber's soldiers look on) and Agron, Duro, and Spartacus are conspiring. It looks like someone sat that man down for a trim and I gotta say -- he cleans up GOOD. (^_~)


	7. The Rudis and the Spark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: gore, torture (corporeal punishment), reference to NCS (canon-compliant)
> 
> Formatting notes: Nasir's battle with Gordianus has been told in past perfect tense in a series of three separate flashbacks. I hope that isn't too confusing.

 

The rudis.

I had witnessed its ceremony once.  At the opening games of the new arena, Gannicus -- the very same Celt who had once stood as one of Batiatus’ titans -- had earned his freedom upon the sands, surviving a mob battle within a circle of flame.  The blood and gore had been spectacular.  Stomach-churningly spectacular.

This time, it was very different.

Those of the Brotherhood gaped at me, aghast.  Duro’s gawp slowly tugged into a disbelieving grin.  Rabanus appeared torn between strangling me and slapping me on the back.  Agron was...

My lover was furiously silent.  Well.  Why wouldn’t he be?  The man had cause.

His own fight beside Duro and Donar had been relatively brief.  Though it had not felt as such to me at the time: one heartbeat after another of mortal peril, each seeming to stretch out more than the one previous.  I had forgotten to breathe.  I had screamed direction.  I had cursed and clutched at the bars and bared teeth and sworn to the fucking gods themselves that I would find a way to come between my brothers and the Ferryman if need be.

A short fight, but considering the number of matches scheduled, a longer one had not been needful.

And then I had been called.

I had stepped out onto the sand… and I had stayed there.  I had fought and fought and fought and _****fought.****_

I trembled with exhaustion, but did not dare sink down onto a bench no matter the numerous empty places.  I did not bother to wonder why so many men were on their feet watching me, hands clapping together over and over.  I fell back against the wall, closed my eyes, and breathed through the raw, wet passage of my too-narrow throat.

The scuff of nearing footsteps.  I was too worn to open my eyes.

Callused hands cupped my face.  I knew these fingers.  My lips twitched.  My lashes fluttered.

Agron rumbled three terse words: “Your fucking intent?”

“Changed,” I croaked.

Changed, indeed.  When I had stepped out upon the sands, I’d had every intention of slaying my opponent as instructed.  Upon learning his name, I had resigned myself to a long, hard fight.  I had gathered my courage and sharpened my intent: I would give my all to the coming battle so that I might offer Gordianus a good showing if possible, but I would return to my brothers at all cost.

And so I had fought.  I’d fought for every step, every breath, every moment of life: the clang of metal blades and thunder-clap of shields; feet kicking up dust and an instant of weightlessness; air shocked from lungs, elbows digging into sand.

_****Roll!** ** _

_****Gain feet!** ** _

_****Counter!** ** _

_****Duck!** ** _

_****Attack!** ** _

A dive toward opponent’s feet.  Spear shaft between ankles.  A sudden jerk-twist and Gordianus slamming to the ground.  The arena shaking-roaring-screaming.

I’d retreated.

He’d stood.

We had circled, panting.

A short break had been called and slaves had emerged with water to soothe parched throats.

I’d moved back toward the gate to meet the promise of refreshment, aching to visit the grate and receive succor from my brothers, but I stayed the desire.  A stubborn shit, as I’d once confessed to Rabanus.

Doubling my determination, I’d accepted fresh water.  Glared toward Gordianus at end opposite.  Moved to don my helmet once more…

And then a stray breeze had changed everything.

“By what?” Agron demanded softly, his forehead pressing against mine as if he could push his rage into my skull.

I gripped his wrists hard.  Anchoring myself.  My knees were made of water.

My lover snarled on a whispering rasp: “What could possibly turn your purpose to goad an experienced gladiator faced with death to such spectacle?”

A flutter of movement upon the sands had caught my eye.  A once-fine cut of cloth.  Lovingly embroidered with designs Romans would call “rustic” and “quaint.”  Gaulish.  I’d studied Gordianus out of the corner of my eye as he’d looked to his left arm beneath shield and promptly scanned the arena.  I’d made sure I had his attention as I deliberately tucked the cloth into my own bracer.  The right one.

 _ ** **Fight for this,****_  I had dared him with lifted chin.

“Fucking thief,” he’d accused on a rasping hiss as we’d faced off once again.

“I return it to you absent stain of blood,” I’d promised, “in fair exchange.”

“For your life to be spared?”

“Return me to my brothers, and I would see you freed to return to homeland and loving arms.”

Had there ever been such an agreement between combatants upon the sands?  Perhaps.  Our voices did not carry to the audience.

“Earn it, little man,” he’d challenged.

I fucking had.  I’d fought until the crowd had chanted _****both****_  our names.  Mine as I’d tumbled and somersaulted and flipped, spun and wove and dodged with athletic and dramatic agility.  The Gaul’s as he’d driven me back, thrown me down, slashed relentlessly against my shield and spear.  The latter I had lost at one point and had been forced to draw sword to counter attack.  My ears had rung at Agron’s roar, distant and words indistinct.  A reminder of my vow to him.  I would fucking keep it.

My lips curled; I ignored the editor’s distance-blurred speech as he presented the rudis to Gordianus.  A reward for five years of superior combat and one truly memorable fight.  His fifth in the arena of Capua this year: a draw.

Gordianus was a free man.

At battle’s conclusion, I had offered my arm in congratulations and his thick fingers had stealthily tugged the cloth from under my bracer.

“Gratitude,” I had wheezed.  “From myself and those who hold me to heart.”

“Well fought, little Syrian.  Truly.”

High praise.  Higher than the applause following the typical gush of blood and stink of death.

I had once questioned if a house slave could survive armed combat against a gladiator; I had wondered if it was possible to acquire deadly skill, to emerge victorious from the arena.  A week previous, my query had been answered: it was possible.  Amazingly possible.  But there was yet more: the moment I had laid eyes upon that scrap of treasured cloth, I had dared to wonder if it was also possible for a house slave to save a gladiator’s life.  To see him freed.

It was.

My hands had freed a man tonight.  By the fucking gods, I had set hands to purpose ** _ **and freed a man tonight.**_**

Agron froze, his fingers twitching against my cheeks and I realized I had allowed the words to pass my lips.  “Are you mad?” he hissed.  “Have you lost fucking senses?”

“Seized opportunity,” I argued cryptically.

Spartacus’ hand descended upon my shoulder.  “I would hear more of this if you agree to break words on it later.”

Later.  Yes, that would be wise.  Agron’s brows twitched and his mouth tightened as he let out a long breath.  I did not expect forgiveness for the agony I had caused him as he’d watched helplessly from the other side of iron bars.  Gordianus and I had faced each other four times before the screaming crowd had called for the rudis.  Not for me, of course.  I was yet new to the arena, but for Gordianus freedom was hard-won.

With a shock, I found myself sat down upon bench, Agron’s arm over my shoulders, pressing my sweaty, dusty, stinking, aching, shuddering body against the solid movement of his ribs.  “Living -- life--”  I gasped between burning lungfuls.  “--is the harder task.”

“Spoken true,” Donar agreed, holding out a cup of stale water.  I accepted with a weary grin.  Drank slowly.  Lowered the cup shakily.  Donar retrieved it before it fell.

Varro helped Duro to the bench beside me.  “I would wager Agron wishes for new brothers.”

“Less foolhardy ones,” my lover grumbled, lips against my crown.

“What boring fucks they will be!”  From Duro’s mischievous grin, Agron was clearly glaring daggers at him over my head.

My effort at elbowing Agron’s belly was too weak to be taken as movement with purpose, so I instead gave prediction: “You would miss us.”

“Only until my aim is true.”

“He is shit with bow and arrow,” Duro confided to me in a loud whisper.  “Worry not, brother Nasir.”

He asked the impossible: I adored them both too much not to worry.

Duro slumped against me, grabbing my wrist.  Agron nudged his big body closer.  Hm.  I must have spoken absent intent again.

I dozed.  If Numerius expressed desire for me to attend ceremony or celebration tonight, I would face the coming challenges somewhat rested.  Agron did not rouse me; I missed Spartacus’ performance in the primus.

I remembered only a vague shout -- the sound of the champion’s name -- and then seemingly moments later Spartacus stood before us covered in blood as he urged Duro to his feet.  Donar grabbed my brother’s other arm and, braced between them, Duro hobbled along the tunnels.

Varro gripped my far elbow.  I threw an arm around Agron’s waist as we made our way to the wagon.  Crammed into the cart.  Swayed -- spent with exhaustion -- upon the dusty road.  Tumbled out at ludus gate.

Duro was sent directly to Medicus for monitoring of inevitable fever.  Agron herded me to the baths and commanded the strigil with ease, cleaning me thoroughly before easing me into the water.  I startled awake when he splashed in beside me.

“Apologies,” I muttered, uncaring of who was within earshot.  “No celebratory fuck tonight.”

Agron hummed in my ear.  “A genuine loss.”

“Hmm.  I am one for each.”  Just like my test: one win, one draw, one defeat.

I managed to dress myself and stumble into my cell.  Agron sat beside me.  I knew not for how long.  Slumber claimed me and, surely, his brother required his care thereafter.

I woke to the sound of key-in-lock.  A new day of unrecognizable meals and mind-numbing training.  Joy.

And yet, considering how closely Duro had come to death in the arena, there _****was****_  much joy to be had.

Agron and I accepted task of delivering Duro his portion of morning meal to the infirmary.  Donar made motions to come with us, but Agron ordered him away: “Go piss over cliff’s edge!”

Donar protested, “I fucking hauled his pathetic ass from the arena!”

“And when he’s permitted out of bed, you’ll have the honor yet again, Mother Hen.”

I snickered.

Duro’s brow was warm to the touch and his gaze slightly unfocused, but he was awake and coherent.  Medicus had told he must rest for at least three days before reassessment of wound.

“So, little brother,” Duro mumbled between messy bites of gruel, “tell us what drove you to madness in the arena.”

“Aside from watching you paint the sands with your own blood?” I retorted.

“Yes,” he grumbled.  A careless gesture accompanied an irreverent roll of his eyes.  “Aside from that.”

It was unwise to confess all; anyone could be eavesdropping in the corridor and Medicus would return at any moment.  Besides, I knew not what a revelation of my scheming would stir to the surface.  Were I accused of dishonoring the house of Batiatus… well.  The mines would not take what was left of me.

“I recognized a man who wished for freedom.  He had enough sense to commit to purpose.”

Agron’s head thumped back against the wall on a frustrated sigh.

Duro bleated, “Do you never tire of keeping secrets?”

“The reason for many of them approaches,” I gritted out, standing and daring to glance into the corridor -- still empty or the appearance of it.

Before Agron and Duro could take my words at face value and mock me for seeing specters in flickering torch light, I entrusted them with a warning: “Legatus Glaber was in attendance at the arena alongside wife Ilithyia.  Batiatus’ political ambition is no secret and with the death of the magistrate he will seek to advance his position.”

Duro sneered, his gold nose ring winking in the dim light, “And this should cause more concern than an itch upon ass?”

“If the gods show fucking favor, no.”

Agron’s eyes narrowed.  “And if they do not?”

To break words or hold my tongue?  Either path was fraught with risk.  I swallowed back a surge of saliva, my breaths coming in shallow pants.  Thinking of my role in the magistrate’s demise and praying it would not come to light, I said quietly, “Then my life is forfeit.”

Agron stiffened and Duro sat up, fumbling with his emptied bowl and flipping the spoon onto his belly.

“Fuck!” he hissed, scrambling to clutch both implements before they clattered to the floor.

I held up a hand.  “But when am I not a Roman whim away from death?”  Indeed, when were any of us?

“I would know all,” Agron insisted.

“Then you will be marked as I am.”  I shook my head.  “The time will come when you will be presented choice, but it is not now.”  Standing, I held out a hand for Duro’s bowl and spoon.

He irritably shoved them into my grasp.  “Fucking Syrian.”

“A fucking Syrian who seeks to keep your head yet attached to neck,” Agron snapped, and I startled at his quick defense of my efforts.  “Sit up.  Doctore orders you assist with ludus chores while you heal.”

“Of course he would find some task I’m good for.”

“A far greater challenge than facing Theokoles,” I jested.

“Well,” Duro conceded almost graciously.

I carried the bowls and spoons.  Agron hauled Duro’s arm over his shoulders and, with the aid of an occasional grip upon wall, Duro managed to gain the hall without placing too much weight upon his injured leg.  We sat him at our usual table and Lysandros quickly intercepted us, handing Agron and I each a wooden practice sword and taking our bowls.

“Gratitude, Lysandros,” I said.  Duro’s brows twitched with mild surprise.  Either because I had kind words for a house slave or because I knew the man’s name.  “Is Duro to be under your charge today?”

The young man bowed his head.  “Doctore wills it.”

I stuck a finger in Duro’s face.  “If not for freakish twists of fate, I would yet be a house slave like my friend Lysandros.”

Duro lifted both hands in surrender.  “You speak as if I am not the most charming fellow in fucking ludus.”

“Clearly, I have taken leave of my senses.”

The crack of Doctore’s whip set my feet toward the yard, moving with the wave of exhausted gladiators who took to the sands.  Agron lingered at his brother’s side for a moment, words passing quick and urgent between them.  Until the day I could share my secrets absent fear, I would not deny them theirs.

There was no rest for aching bodies absent threatening wounds such as Duro’s.  And even Duro’s hands were busy repairing blunted weapons under Lysandros’ direction.  More than once when I glanced their way, I found myself on the receiving end of Duro’s frown.  It was not an expression he bore naturally and it seemed twice as dire for it.

At midday meal, he reached for Agron’s arm and, to me, spoke, “I require a moment with my brother.”

My lover tensed.  Something in Duro’s manner or choice of words gave signal of danger.  Perhaps they had discovered my secret after all.  I summoned a smile and sought out Varro and Spartacus.  When Varro was called away by Peirastes, Spartacus remarked, “Your words proved true: Glaber arrived in Capua.”

“You know this man?”

Spartacus nodded.  “He is the third I seek.”

Aulus, Batiatus, Glaber.  The death of the first had been accomplished with relative ease.  The other two would not.  I wished I had learned how many men accompanied him.  Regardless, we would have to overcome Batiatus’ guards, who were numerous.  I had never seen them draw swords, but it would be prudent to assume them competent.  Glaber’s men, honed by training with the Roman army, would be more so.

Again, I questioned the wisdom of supporting Spartacus’ cause.

And again, I reached the same conclusion: if we did not make our escape, we would all fall -- one by one -- to our dominus’ mad schemes.  We would rise up or we would die.  To guarantee our success, every Roman who would hunt us must fall.  We would begin with those within striking distance.

“What are your thoughts?” I asked Spartacus.

He squinted, gaze focusing upon intent.  “First, allies to our cause.  Then, opportunity to set hands to purpose.”

Thinking ahead, I contributed, “Third, provisions -- the cooperation of the house slaves would be a boon--”  But also a risk if they were undecided or less committed.  Betrayal for the promise of coin or leniency would be enough to turn many.  “And, should it be needful, concealment.”

The Thracian’s brows arched.  “Provisions, yes.  Concealment?  You know of such a place?”

I did.  “As does Batiatus, Ashur, many of the guards, and Numerius.”  Numerius who had, according to tale told, been the one to discover his father’s body in Solonius’ grasp in the city cisterns.  The perfect place for a group as large as ours to take refuge from immediate pursuit.  Defensible, even.  Until food grew scarce.

Spartacus nodded.  “We but require the spark.”

The spark.  We may wait a lifetime for such an event.  Unless we provided it ourselves.  I thought of the magistrate, Sura, Barca, and the unnamed slave girl who had attempted escape.

It was not enough.  Not to turn every gladiator and house slave against anyone who would call themselves our master.

Into this moment of silent contemplation, footsteps approached.  A hand on my shoulder.  Agron sat close beside me, his body hard and gaze burning with fury though his touch was heart-stoppingly fervent.

Something was wrong.  Very wrong.

He did not speak of it.  I did not ask.

The dearth of words -- that particular silence of unsaid thoughts -- was a weight heavy enough to suffocate a man.

I trained with Rabanus following afternoon drills.  He pressed me hard -- “I would provide additional challenge to a man who can stand so long against an experienced gladiator… even one of Solonius’ ludus.”

Despite my attention to task, I nonetheless heard Agron call out to Spartacus, seeking to break words.  They moved toward the water barrel and Duro’s seat in the hall.  Absent my company.

Rabanus swept at my feet and I leaped out of path of spear… only to find myself bashing shields with him.  When I was at last able to cast my gaze over the yard, I found Duro chatting with Lysandros -- now mending wooden shields -- and Spartacus attacking a palus in clear agitation.  Agron fought Donar, who frowned at my lover’s single-minded fury.

Yes, something had happened.  A new and additional threat.  Spartacus’ reaction showed as much.

It was during mid afternoon training that I heard dreaded sounds: men approaching on horses, the clatter of armor, a shout of welcome.  Legatus Glaber had arrived.

We were summoned.  All of us.

Bodies cleansed of sweat and dirt.  Wrists wrapped in cloth.  Shackles clicked shut, chains clanked, hands fisted.  I nudged Duro with elbow, glancing down at the covering that concealed his bandage.  He nodded once: he was not in distress.  Still, he leaned heavily on Agron as we ascended the stairs.

If the house had been a fine sight during Numerius’ celebration, it stood truly splendid now.  Gleaming and elegant.  Ostentatious draperies and ornamentation removed… perhaps at Ilithyia’s direction.

We were presented to Glaber, arranged in two rows for viewing in the very room Tiberius had been replaced with Nasir.  I would have preferred to stand at the back, but by virtue of my stature, I found myself in the front.  Duro stood between his brother and I: the only thing I found satisfactory in the arrangement.

Legatus Glaber was even less impressive in close proximity.  He yet wore his armor, which added breadth to his form, yet he appeared cumbersome absent helmet to add plumage.

He strode before us as if assessing recruits, his gaze dismissing all but one.  He stopped and faced Spartacus.

“The Champion of Capua,” Glaber mused.  “A sad day when an honored city elevates a cur to such position.”

Spartacus made no reply save to raise chin a mere finger’s width higher.

This pleased the legatus.  “I see you’ve taught the animal not to speak out of turn.”

Batiatus gave no response to this.  No boast.  No brag.  An ominous pressure squeezed against chest.

“I would have demonstration of other tricks the Thracian has learned.”  Glaber turned away with a command: “Unchain him.”

As the Thracian was ordered to stand upon stage amid atrium’s brimming and sparkling impluvium, a familiar scenario took shape; just as Numerius had called for me to oppose his guards in a show of skill, Glaber demanded Spartacus to face one of his own men.  The presence of Ashur lurking in the shadows only furthered the symmetry of the moment.

One soldier was no match for Spartacus.  The man fell in a handful of moves, striking his head upon pool’s ledge.  Spartacus returned to the center of platform to await further instruction.  I was certain there would be another.

There was: two soldiers.  Both fell quickly beneath wooden practice blades and Spartacus yet stood absent wound.

Glaber called for four.  Foolishly, they attacked one by one.  At first.  A combined effort saw Spartacus crashing into the water.  Agron shifted as if to step forward and both Duro and I stiffened.  But Spartacus pushed himself to his feet, inflamed with purpose, and if Glaber could not see the hatred in Spartacus’ gaze the man was a blind fool.  With little more than a wooden pommel -- blade long since broken by steel gladius and second practice sword lost in previous fight -- Spartacus eliminated the remaining two soldiers.  Tossing even the wooden implement aside to beat the face of the last with his bare fists.

His eyes blazed at Glaber and it required no stretch of the imagination to see that Spartacus would give anything to have the legatus at his mercy.

Duro shuddered, goose bumps flashing over his arm either in response to that frigid, murderous fury or due to a spike in fever… or both.

With a final blow, Spartacus allowed the soldier to fall into the shallow water and stood once more to await instruction.  Glaber clearly coveted the illusion of control Batiatus held over Spartacus and dared to bargain, “The way he bows his head in deference…  Would I be afforded such courtesies, I wonder, if patronage were awarded?”

“He would be yours to command,” Batiatus readily but unhappily offered.  “As would all my men.”

Glaber’s gaze drifted toward me.  Lingered.  Calculated.  His mouth quirked, wry and amused.  There was nothing in his manner to alarm me -- I had received similar assessment many times before -- yet Agron’s arms flexed, grinding the chains between his hands, and Duro’s jaw clenched.

Ah.  It was not my secret they had learned of, but Glaber’s.  They knew the man’s intent toward me.  Just as quickly as the epiphany came to me, so did my certainty that there was nothing I could offer in exchange for my life.  I held nothing of significant value -- no knowledge of my current dominus nor my previous one -- that would see me to safety.  My confession to role played in recent schemes would merely earn me greater torment.

I would fall at the whim of this Roman.  I was oddly relieved to know this, to no longer have to wonder and worry that actions taken by my hands would one day endanger the lives of my brothers.  With my death, neither Ashur nor Batiatus held motivation to threaten their well-being for the sake of my cooperation.  Though what specific offense I had caused Legatus Glaber I knew not.

When Spartacus killed this man, I would also be avenged.  It would have to be enough.  I could ask for no more.

I met Glaber’s gaze with indifference.  I would not give him the satisfaction of either fear or fury.

He returned his gaze to Spartacus and spoke his final condition: “Kneel, and it shall be so.”

It was too much to ask of man.

But it was nothing to demand of a slave.

Spartacus commanded stubborn knees to bend, head to bow, gaze to lower.

I would have happily lived the remainder of my life never setting eyes upon the sight of any man or woman brought so low for the sake of another’s ambition.  Only the day before, I had jested with Donar about this very act -- the joke now echoed absent all humor.

And then the world exploded.

An anguished, enraged bellow.  Crixus charged Ashur, slamming the man to the floor and claiming right of blood.  For what offense?

Shouting over Crixus’ mindless, agonized roars, Ashur swiftly offered explanation: Naevia.

Lucretia’s body slave had been given to Ashur and the man had dared touch her.  Had dared to claim her as his own.  Only now, it seemed, had Crixus learned of it.

By the gods.  Crixus and Naevia had dared to love each other.  Had dared to claim the most sacred and basic of human rights.  They had dared to allow heart within breast to beat for another.

Glaber sneered at the display, turning away from Batiatus and giving the order to depart.  The glare our dominus gifted Crixus rivaled the one Lucretia leveled upon her body slave.

Oh, gods save them both.  Crixus and Naevia.  The cost of their love would be high.

Too high.

Crixus paid his share that night, arms spread wide and hands bound to twin poles sunk deep in the ground.

“No man is above retribution,” Dominus declared from balcony’s elevated position, “for offenses committed against the house of Batiatus.  No gladiator.  No champion.  Even the men that guard you should they be found guilty of deceit or incompetence.”

The head of a man, hair clutched in Batiatus’ grasp, was thrust toward our gaze.  All in the yard beheld our dominus’ notion of punishment and justice.

“Hector found his key removed.  His head follows.”  It was tossed to the sand.  Bounced.  Rolled.

I glimpsed the criss-crossing scars upon the side of the former guard’s face.  The very man Agron and I had fooled for the purpose of stealing secret nights together.  I had assumed his inattention was due to laziness.  It had not been.  He had not possessed the key for locking the ludus doors shut.  Fuck the gods.  A single key commanded all locks?  A fact of value, perhaps, in coming days.

Batiatus continued: “Fault lies in my own breast with heart grown too large.  This cannot stand.”  A pause.  A fortifying breath.  “Legatus Claudius Glaber is now our honored patron and he has opened my eyes to the error of my _****generosity.****_   One that demands correction.”

Generosity.  Such as indulging the whim of the magistrate’s son and taking a house slave into the ludus as a recruit, molding him into a fighter, sending him to the arena, making him into a gladiator and a symbol of hope for those who would grasp sword were they but presented pommel.  Of course Glaber sought my death.  Batiatus’ near-sighted ambition stood as the sole reason I had been permitted to live even this long.

I did not look away from the balcony though I felt the weight of Duro’s gaze upon me and I understood the defiant line of Agron’s shoulders.  I no longer wondered what secret had been kept from me today.  Something Lysandros had likely told Duro.  Some remark the house slave had been given opportunity to overhear in the arena as he’d attended Glaber.  Yes, it was clear to me now: I would die.  Soon.  The only uncertainties remaining were the time and place.

Batiatus turned his attention to Crixus, bound between unbreakable poles, bared to waist and awaiting the slashing bite of Doctore’s whip.  With a nod, Dominus commanded the punishment begun.

I lowered my gaze to watch.  I would watch this man suffer for his love.  So easily, it could be Agron or Duro or myself stretched open.  It could be any of us.  In fact, if Batiatus would order this done to one of his favorite titans, it would one day be each and every one of us.

Doctore’s mumbled instructions to Crixus were lost in the distance, but the swish of the whip uncoiling was heard by all.  The first strike and Crixus’ cry of agony -- a lash mark upon his back.  A lash mark upon each and every one of us who stood doomed to witness it.

Seventeen.

Seventeen lashes.

Seventeen lines of split skin spurting blood and hope.

Seventeen reasons for anguish and rage.

“Enough!” Batiatus called and the guards -- Glaber’s soldiers -- began herding us toward ludus corridor.

 _ **Enough,**_ the Roman had deemed.  As I looked upon those of the Brotherhood, from one stony face to another, I agreed.

It was enough.

Batiatus had given us the spark.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is it for "The Arena"... and coincidentally, this is your last stop for leaving me a kudo (which I would ADORE). If you find yourself moved to comment, I may just love you forever... and also be inspired to post the next installment in this series even sooner than planned. Just so you know. (^_~)
> 
> And now for chapter-specific author's notes:
> 
> My source for information on the rudis can be found here:  
> http://www.tribunesandtriumphs.org/gladiators/rudiarius.htm  
> I’m not sure how accurate the information is, and I’m playing very fast and loose with historical details anyway, but I don’t want to write the same fight/battle/arena situations over and over again and I thought it would be pretty great to surprise you with a gladiator being given the rudis.
> 
> Another source spoke of gladiators having a code of honor (and that many matches did not end in death):  
> http://www.vroma.org/~bmcmanus/arena.html 
> 
> And mentions of them taking breaks during extended fighting:  
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gladiator  
> I figure that if one round of modern-day boxing lasts two minutes with breaks and medical checks in between (and after only about seven rounds, both dudes tend to look like wet noodles), then it’s unrealistic to expect two gladiators to fight nonstop for more than five minutes at a time. Besides, Nasir and Gordianus are FUN to watch, so the crowd is all for drawing out the match and don’t mind (too much) that they’re allowed to rest a bit and rehydrate. Perhaps because Gordianus’ power and experience is pitted against Nasir’s speed and agility, this makes a longer match more desirable and exciting than simple blood and gore. I dunno. I’m not an ancient Roman. But given Numerius’ geekgasm over the sport, it must have multiple appreciable facets. (Not that Numerius really recognizes the nuances, otherwise he would have valued Varro’s superb wingman performances alongside Spartacus.)


End file.
